


Vengeance

by Crescent_Moon_Demon



Category: Transformers Generation One
Genre: Aftermath, Angst, Betrayal, Character Death, Gang Rape, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Language, Multi, Prisoners, Rape, Recovery, Self Sacrifice, Torture, Violence, attempted suicide, mental health, victim abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-01
Updated: 2014-11-30
Packaged: 2018-02-27 15:59:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 10
Words: 36,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2698859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crescent_Moon_Demon/pseuds/Crescent_Moon_Demon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Broken, beaten, defiled... Living, let alone moving on, from this point is a challenge not many are strong enough to accomplish. Dark fic; Rape, Language, Mech/Mech</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**C.M.D: As the idea for Matters of Consternation came to mind, so did this, and thus I began writing both fics at the same time, though one finished before the other. While MoC was a look into madness and the destruction of one individual, Vengeance became a chance for me to analyze, evaluate and even understand how people respond differently to trauma and how they move past it... or not.**   
**I am sad that this fic was removed from FF.net, though I understand that it is too big a topic for most young readers, but I am greatly proud of this story all the same; thus I share it with all of you again and hope that you may like it as well come the end.**   
**Originally posted September 14, 2011**

* * *

It had been unexpected...

Two Autobot captives sat bound in their cage; helms and optics turned to the floor lowly. There was no hope to be found in them, no desire for redemption. Never before had they thought that they, out of all their comrades, would be in this situation: chained, beaten and at the mercy of their Decepticon enemies. Would the others come for them, was a thought they dared not even prospect. The chances of a rescue too dismal to even contemplate at this moment.

The darkness that encompassed them split -light spilled forth from the hallway beyond as the doors to the brig were opened, two large forms entering. Their hulking masses blocked out details, but it could only have been the Autobots' jailers, for their admittance to this dank place had been not that long ago for any rescue efforts to have been organized. This fact was confirmed barely an astrosecond later, when the two large mechs revealed themselves to be Mixmaster and Longhaul. The Decepticons seemed positively mirthful as they dragged a half-conscious Ratchet back towards the cell.

The other two prisoners did not even bother to try and make a break for freedom once the energon bars had dissipated; far too weak and damaged to stand, let alone rush these hulking enemies. The moment passed anyway, as Ratchet was thrown into the cell, the bars coming back online with a nasty spit of static. "See you later, lil' medibot," Longhaul commented cruelly, Mixmaster cackling at his words. "We'll have a good ol' time, again, won't we?"

Finally, the two contructicons turned and left the brig; shutting the doors behind them and leaving everything in darkness again. Optics adjusting, the other prisoners turned their full attention to the medic, who was struggling to push himself into a sitting position; arms cinched tightly behind his back from a pair of stasis cuffs. It was not hard to see the traces of viscous fluid and ragged scuff marks that covered almost every inch of the ambulance, especially along the glass of his chest plates and cheeks.

"R-ratchet, i-is...," Perceptor choked, unable to complete his sentence.

Tracks glanced over the CMO's entire frame again, before respectfully turning his optics away from the sight. "They did, didn't they?," the corvette asked, voicing the fears that he and the scientist had been speculating earlier. Ratchet did not reply. Perceptor strangled a fearful quail at the silent confirmation, turning his helm away from his comrades; unable to cover his audio receptors but desperately wishing he could. Tracks merely sighed, tilting his head back and offlining his optics. "I knew it...," he whispered dully.

"Just go with it," Ratchet spoke up eventually. The medic's vocalizer was rough and laced with static, no doubt from the abuse it had just been subject too. "Put your processor into another state; offline your optics and turn off your audios. The more complacent you are, the faster it's over with."

"Nononononononononononononononononononononono," Perceptor was mumbling in one continuous stream from his corner of their cell. The scientist was shaking his head wildly, as if denying this entire thing could somehow save them from it all. The others, out of consideration did not bother to break him from his useless mantra, already hearing the oncoming sobs in the smaller mech's vocalizer.

Ratchet eased himself upright, ignoring the dirt and grime he could feel over every inch of his chassis. His fuel tanks roiled chaotically, demanding that he purge, but he forced the feeling back, knowing that it would do him no good if he shot excrement all over the floor. Besides, he would need whatever energy was still in his systems for later... who knew when the Decepticons might decide to feed their prisoners. The important thing to do now anyway, was to survive.

Everything else, he knew, could come afterwards.

If you didn't pull through to then... than all of this would make little difference in the end.

Lifting his optics, Ratchet studied each of his cell mates, lip components twisting into a frown when he finally realized that one comrade was missing. He squinted, increasing his visual input, but it only confirmed that there was three of them sitting in the brig now. "...Where's Mirage?," the medic asked, turning to the only 'bot who could give him any answers. Perceptor had yet to break from his terrified babbling.

Tracks slowly onlined his optics again, staring up at the ceiling. The words he offered next made Ratchet's spark almost wither in its spark chamber; a cold, slimy feeling overcoming the CMO. "Vortex took him shortly after you were... we've heard nothing since."

**xxXxXxx**

Mirage still had yet to be returned.

The constructicons came on a couple more occasions to recollect Ratchet, bringing the medic back even more filthier and de-energized as before. The fragging glitches didn't even have the decency to clean their 'toy' after playing with it. The cycles passed, slowly stretching into orns; each one feeling as if an eternity were going by with every scared, hopeless astrosecond. Still, there was no sign of a rescue party or their M.I.A comrade. Perceptor remained mostly ignored, crying silently from time to time in his little corner of their cell. The introverted scientist completely clammed up in his terror, and Tracks and Ratchet were too exhausted to pull him out of it. His silence was like a cloak at the moment, keeping him safe from any other Decepticons that decided to peruse the brig that cycle.

Tracks was eventually moved as well, being dragged along by an over zealous Motormaster, who had just returned from a mission recently with the rest of his gestalt. The situation had been as the corvette had assumed when Ratchet was first returned to them: a lot of grasping, clawing servos and a torrent of pain that flooded and encased him; resulting in practically a new repaint of pale magenta at the end of it. His disgust could barely compare to the position he was forced into; shame not even comprehensible. But Tracks did the only thing he could do -he bore through it all, forcing his processor from the action as it took place, reminding himself over and over again that he had to survive this. That he had to be stronger than the Decepticons; that he was not going to be offlined like this.

Warning signs flashing before his optics, the multi-coloured Autobot was returned to the brig; left just as damaged and dirty as Ratchet, until another Decepticon decided they had a use for him.

Then the cycle repeated itself.

**xxXxXxx**

Evil, wild chuckling was prelude to the Decepticon's entry.

Tracks barely lifted his helm, glancing at the helicopter that strutted into the room, the squeal of dragging metal behind him. "Hello, slag-eaters," Vortex sneered. The copter leaned in close to the bars, going so far as to actually rest a servo on the glowing cylinder. Energy crackled immediately and there was the acrid scent of searing metal as the Decepticon's servo began to burn, yet the grey mech refused to move his servo. In fact, he seemed to be enjoying the pain it caused him. Tracks curled his upper lip component at the sight, making Vortex cackle.

"Don't be such a prude," the helicopter giggled madly. "There's nothing like a little _burn_ to excite the circuits."

"But, I suppose that's something to show you for another orn," Vortex continued, removing his servo and punching in the security code for their cell. The bars had barely disappeared before the Decepticon was tossing the unconscious Mirage into the tiny chamber with them. The sight of their missing comrade prompted a reaction out of Perceptor, who turned away from his corner and shuffled slowly toward the fallen spy.

"Mirage?," the scientist whispered worriedly. "Mirage?!"

Vortex cocked his helm at the crawling microscope, a twisted grin curling his lip components. "Now, now," he said, reaching down and grabbing Perceptor. "You can cry over your little friend later. Right now, you've got an appointment with Lord Megatron."

The red Autobot gave a squeak of fright, before he thrashed wildly in the Decepticon's hold. " _Noooo!_ ," he screamed. "Let me go! Let me go!"

"Leave him alone!," Tracks croaked, trying to rise to his pedes. His servos were still bound behind his back, and without any fresh energon in his systems, he lacked the strength necessary for the simple action of standing. Vortex laughed at his efforts, kicking the corvette back down onto his aft.

"Sit down!," he crowed. "You'll get your turn eventually." Hefting the scientist up higher, the helicopter tossed Perceptor over one shoulder, walking from the cell. He paused only for a second, to turn the energon bars back on, before he headed for the brig door; laughing the entire way.

Tracks watched helplessly as Perceptor was taken from sight; the microscope crying and pleading to be placed back into his cell. The door closed again on the multi-coloured Autobot, leaving him alone in the dark brig with only an unconscious Mirage to keep him company.

**xxXxXxx**

"The Autobots' genius scientist; Perceptor. Welcome." Megatron smirked from his throne, red optics staring down at the quaking microscope. "I think it's been some time since your last visit. I had thought you might have been deactivated then from your contamination with the cosmic rust, but yet again you Autobots prove to be extremely _resourceful_ nuisances. No doubt that intelligent processor of yours was able to save you and your comrades."

Megatron's praise, for that's what his words sounded like, felt dirty. Perceptor shivered at the tyrant's gravelly tone, turning his helm to the floor. It took all his control not to break out into whimpers and to stand at all in the gun-former's presence; to look up at the malevolent Warlord required too much bravery from the scientist. Bravery, that he did not have. "Y-you must be confusing me w-with someone else," Perceptor mumbled back. "I-it was W-wheeljack's invention that saved u-us."

There was a rumble of mocking laughter. The Autobot glanced upwards, seeing the attention of the entire throne room on him. Granted, the audience present only consisted of Starscream, his trine and Soundwave, but it was still enough to make the shorter mech tremble in terror. Would they do to him what they had done so far to the others? Or would it be worse?

"Nonsense," Megatron replied. "It was your corro-stop formula that was what saved you all from extinction. Wheeljack's inventions aren't nearly as useful without your input. A processor like that would be most beneficial to our cause..."

It took nearly a full klik for the microscope to comprehend what the Decepticon Leader was implying. When he realized what Megatron meant, Perceptor back-pedalled in horror; servos rising to his face. "N-no! No, I could never join you!," the scientist protested. He continued to scurry backwards, but Soundwave cut off his retreat. The seekers laughed at the scientist's foolish action, but Megatron was anything other than amused.

Rising to his pedes, the Warlord stepped down from his podium, approaching the Autobot. "An unwise decision," he said. Silence fell at his words, eager optics waiting to see what would become of the microscope. Soundwave stepped back at Megatron's gesture, allowing the tyrant to start a slow, predatory rotation around the frightened Perceptor.

Perceptor stared wide-opticed as the Decepticon circled him; coolant collecting in the corners of his optics. He was so scared, he was trembling again, his plating clanging together loud enough for everyone in the room to hear.

They did not comment on the sound though, watching quietly still as Megatron walked around the microscope. "You will join me," the gun-former hissed, leaning in unreasonably close to the scientist. A large, black servo stroked down condensed-slicked back struts. "Before or _after_ I release you to the rest of the wolves. It all depends on your response."

Perceptor flinched at the personal touch, wanting nothing more than to run away from it. Yet, he remained rooted to the spot, gaze locked with that of a suddenly lustful one of Megatron. "I-i-i-i... I couldn't; I won't," the Autobot choked. "I-i-i'll never be y-your soldier."

A snarl was quick to come to the grey mech's lip components. "So be it! Skywarp, Thundercracker, Starscream: this scrapheap is yours to do with as you wish."

"N-noo!," Perceptor yelled, spinning around as the seekers were dismissed. Before he could get far, Starscream lifted a null-ray, shooting the scientist square in the back. Perceptor fell to the floor; still online, but unable to move. He watched with growing horror, as Skywarp and Thundercracker closed in on him, two cruel, dark smiles twisting their features.

**xxXxXxx**

Starscream pushed and shoved the swaying Perceptor forwards, null-ray pressed tightly to the back of the scientist's helm. Mumbled threats and spat curses left the Air Commander's lip components as he led his prisoner onwards, back to the brig that he had first come from. Anyone looking might have thought the seeker's actions were excessive... To Starscream they were anything but.

How dare he -this weak, pitiful glitch- incur Megatron's lust and attentions?! He was unworthy of such things! Starscream couldn't say if it was because of disgust or jealousy that brought such vehemency out of him, but it left a black, cold weight in the jet's chassis that burned intensely within him. It was a feeling that could only be satisfied by seeing the scientist suffer horribly. Already, Perceptor had been put through a string of rough interfaces; his inner circuitry ripped and shorted out from the brutal assault. That he could still walk was astounding in itself... but Starscream was hardly finished with the microscope. He still had other plans in mind for the Autobot, later on.

"Get in here, you fool!," the SIC screeched, punching the code for the brig door open a little too roughly, and giving Perceptor a nasty shove into the dark room.

The red mech made a small whimper as he fell to the floor, chin hitting the metal surface hard. "Pathetic...," Starscream spat, reaching down and grasping the scientist by the back of his neck.

"Leave him alone!," came a growl from the cell up ahead.

The seeker sneered at the winged Autobot, dragging Perceptor forward. "And just what will you do about it?," he asked condescendingly. Tracks did not answer, gritting his denta angrily, while Ratchet struggled to focus on the quiet microscope.

"What have you done to him?!," Ratchet this time croaked. His vocalizer seemed to have been damaged permanently now from repeated abuse. Proper medical attention might have fixed it, but that was as useless to hope for in their precarious situation. Both Autobots turned their attention to Perceptor, taking in the scientist's scuffed and dirtied chassis, all the way to his dim and unfocused optics.

"This...," Starscream hissed, lifting the red Autobot higher, "little glitch hardly got what's coming to him. He deserves something more, something like... _this!_ "

The SIC thrust his arm forward, shoving the microscope into the energon bars; pressing hard on the smaller mech as he suddenly bucked and screamed in agony, attempting to get away from the dangerous electricity jolting through his systems and causing them to short-circuit with raw pain. Tracks and Ratchet rolled in their cell helplessly, still bound and weakened. They shouted over Perceptor's high-pitched cries of torment, demanding their friend be released and spewing a series of different curses to the Decepticon.

Starscream only chuckled mirthlessly, finally disabling the energon bars and letting Perceptor fall into the open cell. He turned the bars back on, laughing harder as the conscious Autobots immediately shuffled for their unresponsive comrade. Tracks turned away from the scientist, glaring unadulterated fury at the seeker.

"You'll pay for this, you fragger," he growled lowly, crooked wings hitching with the power of his statement.

"You think so, huh?," Starscream sneered. "You know what, I don't think I've had enough fun yet. I think I'll take you out for a whirl!" The SIC deactivated the cell door again, shooting two null-ray blasts into the cramped chamber and immobilizing both Autobots. Snickering still, he swaggered inside, pulled Tracks up by a vicious tug on his wing, shoving the corvette out by gun point. The other mech swayed dangerously on his pedes, the combination of lack of energy and the effects of the null-ray disrupting his equilibrium.

"C'mon, Autobrat," the seeker laughed. "You can play with your 'friends' later. Right now, you and me are gonna go play a 'game'."

Starscream made sure that the cell bars were back in place before he marched Tracks out of the brig, null-ray still lifted to the other's helm. "You disgusting, virus-ridden, malfunctioning, piece of-"

"Watch it!," the Decepticon hissed, jabbing Tracks with the null-ray sharply. "I'm not about to tolerate your insults, worm."

"No, but you'll take Megatron's any day, right?," Tracks snipped back heatedly.

The SIC's optics flashed a bright red right before he swung his arm around, slamming it into the side of the corvette's helm. Tracks crashed into the adjacent wall, sliding to the floor disorientated. Intakes faltering, the Autobot looked up at the Air Commander, a twisted grin marring his bloody lip components. "What?," Tracks poked dangerously. "Am I too close to the truth or something? Sick, little demented 'Screamer has a thing for his incompetent Leader?"

Starscream clenched his servos tightly, denta bared like a feral animal. "You will regret mocking me, Autoscum!," he released in a low, deadly hiss. He lifted both null-rays, increasing the output setting until it was at critical level -enough to kill a 'bot. "No one makes fun of Starscream and gets away with it!"

"Starscream: disengage!"

The third voice startled the seeker, causing his shot to veer widely to the side as he fired. Cursing colourfully, the SIC turned to Soundwave, glaring at the intruding mech. "What do you want?!," Starscream screeched. "Can't you see I'm busy?!"

Soundwave merely tipped his helm forward slightly. "Fact: Megatron does not want prisoners offlined. Actions: opposite of command."

The seeker spat at the communication officer's words, lifting his null-rays again. "Lord Megatron's orders are for weak, pathetic Autobots like this one! What does it matter if I blast the spark out of one?"

The telepath's visor dimmed as, suddenly, Starscream was slammed with an invisible force. Screeching in distress, the winged Decepticon grabbed his helm; trying to fight back against Soundwave's brutal, mental ramming force.

"Order: Leave premises," the blue mech intoned, even as he continued his relentless assault. Starscream slammed into the opposite wall, screaming again as Soundwave drove another mental spike through his firewalls. Struggling to glare, the SIC spared the telepath a final glance before he turned and fled down the other end of the hall; running from the beating strength that threatened to tear his processor to slag.

Tracks did not even bother to move as Soundwave approached him, lifting his optics to look up at the Decepticon. Noticing that familiar gleam in the communication officer's visor, the corvette slowly shuttered his optics; raising his bound servos for the tapedeck to grab. "To your quarters, I assume?," the Autobot mumbled dully, already resigned to this predictable end.

Soundwave said nothing, only hoisted Tracks to his pedes, and guided the multi-coloured mech down the hall.

**xxXxXxx**

A choked cry of ecstasy tore itself from Tracks' vocalizer.

The corvette slumped onto the berth, circuits still tingling from the rush zinging across his sensory net. The pleasure had been so good, too good, after all that pain and torment from before. His valve clamped hungrily, damaged wings fluttering desperately, automatically seeking it out again. The Autobot wanted to grasp that bliss, wrap himself up tight in it and erase everything else from his memory banks. It was only with the cold, sickening feeling of dread did Tracks online his optics, recalling firmly that it was a Decepticon that had just interfaced with him.

A Decepticon that had brought him to the throes of pure passion, overloading into bittersweet oblivion.

More specifically, Soundwave.

Fans whirled in the silence between the two mechs, beginning to revolve in slower rotations as their spent systems started to cool down again; Soundwave finally pulling his spike from the Autobot's valve with a muffled groan. The communications officer must not have interfaced in quite some time... His transfluid was thick and sticky, coating the corvette's passage warmly. It also could explain why the blue mech overloaded so quickly, though it gave no reason for the care the Decepticon had given his captive while he raped him.

Yes, Tracks thought coldly to himself, even without the stasis cuffs on, this was rape and he should not let himself be confused by how considerate Soundwave had been to him.

Too low on energy to move on his own accord, Tracks continued to lay there on the berth, waiting for the Decepticon to make his next move for him. As the telepath moved about the room, the multi-coloured mech let his dim optics study his surroundings. They were fairly large quarters for a third in command, but with the room as sparse it was, it only increased the emptiness, making it seem even bigger. There was a desk full of datapads, and a smaller work area, cluttered and set at about minibot height; suitable for Soundwave's creations. Otherwise though, the room was empty apart from the berth that he laid on now -perfectly suitable for the detached communications officer.

Tracks was distracted from the rest of his thoughts by the glow of an energon cube. Stunned optics focused on the servo that held the item before his faceplates, looking up at Soundwave with the same amount of perplexity and shock. The Decepticon did not say anything though, but proceeded to tip the cube's contents into the Autobot's lax mouth. The corvette thrashed at the first dribble, certain that the telepath had tampered with the energon in some manner. But his actions only forced Soundwave to grab his helm, none too gently one might add, and force the rest down past Tracks' spluttering. Perhaps about a quarter of the energon actually made it into Tracks' systems... the rest, fell to either the berth or onto his chassis. That little bit of fuel though was enough to bring some life back into the corvette's frame -and to highlight the areas of his structure that were extremely strained and aching.

Gasping at the fresh wave of pain, muted by the pleasant interface he had just been forced into, Tracks didn't notice Soundwave leaving him until the mech next returned: solvent and rag in hand. Without even a comment or wandering grope, the Decepticon began to clean the Autobot; wiping away all trace of crusted fluids, both energon and not. Tracks stilled at the unexpected motion, still not trusting the telepath but too wary to mount some sort of retaliation. As far as he could tell, there was no harm thus far in what Soundwave was doing.

"...get _away_ from me," the corvette eventually growled, unable to take either the quiet or the tapedeck's irregular touch anymore.

The red visor looked up at him, before Soundwave surprisingly withdrew. Placing both rag and cleaner onto the floor, the blue mech gathered the stasis cuffs once more; clipping them about Tracks' wrists. The Autobot said nothing to this... The return of the cuffs could only mean one thing: he was being returned to the brig. And that thought, though as terrifying and depressing as it was, was a much better prospect then remaining out here on the rest of the Nemesis; where the time meant being beaten and gang-banged out of one's processor.

Much better indeed...


	2. Chapter 2

"Optim's, please! Ya gotta let us go an' get 'em! Who knows what those nasty 'cons 'r up t'!"

"Jazz, please," the truck-former begged, turning to the saboteur. "I'm just as worried about them as you are... but we can do nothing until we have a plan. We're still recovering as it is from the last battle... First Aid is swamped trying tor repair everyone, but there is too much for him to do alone."

"The oth'rs though-"

"We would only endanger them further. We don't know what's become of them, or where Megatron has them; how many guards... without more information, any rescue mission could be easily crushed before it can be carried out," Optimus continued, raising a hand to stop Jazz's protest. "I am not happy about this either-"

"Then let meh go sir!," Jazz cried, cutting off his leader's next sentence. "Please, sir, 'f it's a plan ya need then let Prowler start working 'ot the details an' I'll get ya the inf'rmation ya need. Jus' let meh go an' scope 'ot what Megatron 'as done wit' 'r friends. Pleeeeease!"

The others looked from the Special Ops mech and to their Leader. They were all pretty damaged, despite the fix up First Aid had given them, but it could do nothing to quell the concern and unease they carried for their lost comrades. Prowl stepped forward, still cradling his broken arm.

"Sir, I can begin running statistics, and plotting a route from one of Jazz's previous layouts. It'll be no problem to adjust it with his new intel," the SIC said. "As it stands, our force is nearly at half-strength without either Mirage's invisibility, Perceptor's scientific expansion or Ratchet's medical expertise. If we lose them now, for good, the chances of us being able to handle the Decepticons at all come our next confrontation are below a fifteen point six percentile."

"I understand Prowl...," Optimus sighed. "Jazz, you have permission to leave base. I don't think you'd listen even if I said otherwise..."

Jazz lowered his helm slightly in shame. "I'm sorry t' say that would prob'ly be an ord'r I would have t' disobey, sir."

The truck-former nodded his helm in understanding. "Please, take care Jazz, and return with the necessary information soon. Prowl, I'll trust you'll work quickly."

Two voices of confirmation met his audios. Bouncing with renewed energy, Jazz hurried from the room, while Prowl made a much slower exit. To the others, Optimus Prime turned, shoulders sagging slightly as he viewed his beaten and down-trodden soldiers. "Keep strong, Autobots," he said. "We'll get our friends back, safe and sound. Focus only on getting prepared for the up-coming mission; it'll be vital to the others' safety."

**xxXxXxx**

Tracks arched as he overloaded, legs wrapping unconsciously around his assailant's waist. Engine humming as it continued to work out the last of the heat, the corvette found himself beginning to go lax again in Soundwave's hold; unable and not caring to stop the servos sliding down his frame gently as the communications officer pulled his spike out of the Autobot's valve. Those blue hands continued their petting, moving downwards and manually clicking Tracks' codpiece back in place. Once both protective plating were in position and the Decepticon had gotten off of him, Tracks turned and rolled so that he was now laying face-down on the berth. He still lacked any strength to do anything too extraneous and Soundwave would do nothing beyond this point other than a simple cleaning job.

These interactions had been going on for some time now...

It made the corvette's processor whirl, confusion and disbelief warring deep within him. How was it that the tape deck had even the slightest bit of decency within him to clean and refuel the prisoner he was, without hesitation, raping? Why go through all that bother? Certainly, none of the others did when they came looking for one of the Autobots...

Tracks offlined his optics, fingers clenching the berth hard as he felt that familiar rag touch on his plating again; down near his pedes. After the past few cycles -or had it been orns? He couldn't tell anymore; the Stunticons had damaged his chronometer the last time they decided they wanted to have a little 'fun' with the corvette- this was basic routine. Already, Soundwave was making his way back up the Autobot's chassis, wiping away dirt and grime that had gotten stuck into the seams and scratches.

It felt almost good... which it shouldn't have at all, making Tracks feel even more disgusted.

Why couldn't the stupid Decepticon just act like all the others!?

The multi-coloured mech shoved away the rest of his perplexed thoughts, swallowing back the moan as those careful digits finally reached his aching wings.

**xxXxXxx**

Mirage was gone again when he was returned.

Ratchet, coughing up transfluid after having just been returned as well, sat in the middle of the cell. For a second, it did not look like Perceptor was with him. But then Tracks noticed the scientist curled up tight in the farthest corner of the room. It was silent as Soundwave put the corvette with his comrades, but once the Decepticon had left, the CMO turned to Tracks.

"You're looking better than most," Ratchet commented gravelly. In the darkness of the brig, Tracks practically gleamed compared to the other two Autobots.

"And you're not," Tracks replied dully, turning away from the medic. "Where did they take him this time?," he asked, referring to Mirage.

Ratchet coughed again, bending over slightly as his body attempted to purge. The moment passed, and the CMO sat up straight again, shoulders still trembling slightly. "...the Combaticons, I believe. Swindle was the one that picked him up this time, not that fragging glitched copter." The white mech spat into an unseen corner of the cell. "If those crankshafts keep this up, they're gonna cause Mirage's spark to burn out from energy depletion. They haven't even bothered to refuel the rest of us, the slaggers!"

Tracks tipped his helm thoughtfully, mulling over what the medic had to tell him. "Ratchet...," the corvette started softly. "Could you perform an energon transfusion? Here, right now?"

The ambulance looked at the multi-coloured mech as if he had gone mad. "With what tools? They stripped us of all our possessions the moment they took us prisoner," he growled. "And even if I did have some way of doing so, what would I transfuse? None of us have been getting any energon lately. At this rate, we'll starve and die..."

Tracks shifted closer to Ratchet, holding out his arm for the medic. After the first little while, the Decepticons hadn't bothered to re-cuff their prisoners; they knew that the Autobots did not have the strength or will to fight back against their oppressors. This proved to be an advantage to them now, instead of a mockery of their stolen freedom.

"Trust me," the corvette whispered. "I've got enough to spare. Besides, without it, you and the others won't make it through the next orn."

The CMO eyed Tracks suspiciously, but eventually gave in. Joints creaking in protest, Ratchet turned to face the other mech fully, picking and pulling at broken pieces of his own plating. "This'll hurt like the pit," he warned, "Without my proper tools or anaesthetics, this mildly annoying procedure will probably feel like liquid nitrogen through your pipes."

"That's alright, Hatchet," Tracks assured, purposely choosing the Twins' favoured nickname for the medic. Anything to give the exhausted mech hope. "Start with Perceptor first. The kid hasn't made a sound in a while..."

Ratchet nodded his helm, slowly piecing his broken parts into something medically relevant.

**xxXxXxx**

It seemed the only way they could hope to survive was as long as Tracks was getting energon.

Ratchet had at first commented disgustingly how the corvette seemed to be exclusive only to Soundwave now, but that horrendous revelation seemed to turn into their good fortune. As long as the communications officer was being dutiful in his feeding of the corvette, then that gave Tracks energy that could then be siphoned off later to his comrades back in the brig. The pain and the wave of torn emotions was worth it all, because it meant that they lived -fought, hoped- for another day more at least.

A rescue could still happen.

But the longer they went without word or sign from their friends, the thought of eventual redemption came less and less...

**xxXxXxx**

Tracks onlined to the sound of laughter.

At first, the Autobot was confused. Hadn't he just been in Soundwave's room, recovering from another overload; one that he had probably enjoyed more than he should have... Yet, there was only darkness around him. Optics adjusting from the unexpected change in location, the corvette found that there was still light within the darkness: coming from the open doorway just down the hall and the buzzing energon bars before him. Enough illumination to show the horror that was taking place just on the other side.

"L-let him go! Please!" Perceptor struggled pathetically in Dirge's hold, crying weakly as his helm was forced toward the other duo; Wildrider slamming Mirage's face into the floor as he entered the Autobot from behind.

"Why should I let him go?," Wildrider rumbled gleefully. "Look, the slagger likes it."

Mirage was mute, even as his helm was lifted and smashed back into the floor; energon trickling past his slightly gaped lip components. If it wasn't so apparently obvious that the race-car was online, one would think he was dead...

"S-stop!," Perceptor screamed, unable to look away as Wildrider continued thrusting into the unresponsive Mirage. The Decepticon chuckled through his gasping intakes, servos grasping at torn plating and ripping it back with a vicious squeal. The action made Mirage choke weakly, exposed circuits crackling and spilling more energon to the floor.

"Looks like fun," Dirge cooed sickly. His free servo groped down the crying scientist's frame. "My turn."

Perceptor cried out and wiggled desperately as his codpiece was mercilessly torn back, the conehead shoving his thick, nasty fingers into the microscope's valve. Tracks jumped to his pedes, approaching the bars. "Fraggers!," he growled. "Leave them alone!"

The Decepticons paid him little heed, continuing with their abuse of his comrades. Getting desperate, the corvette charged head-long into the energon bars, yelping as the electric jolt tore across his sensory net. Malevolent laughter reached his audios again, accompanied by the pitiful cries of the other Autobots. Emblazoned by their screams, Tracks got up and kept running at the bars separating them. He did not care that each hit shocked him, burned his circuitry, damaging further components within him. He was driven mad by the need to help his friends, uncaring of his own state as he continued trying to break free from his cell.

Eventually, the self-inflicted damage was too much, and Tracks fell to the floor of the cell; Perceptor's screams and Mirage's deathly silence chasing his processor down into the darkness.

**xxXxXxx**

"Ratchet... I don't think we're going to make it..." The whisper of defeat slipped from Tracks' vcoalizer, before he even had the chance to think of stopping it.

The medic lifted his helm slowly, looking over a shoulder at the corvette. Currently, he was trying to get a response out of Mirage but the race-car seemed to have drawn into himself completely with the last visit from the 'cons, just outside of their own cell. The spy kept staring unseeingly at the opposite wall, damaged servos resting in a filthy lap. In his corner once again, was Perceptor. The scientist was crying softly, as he had done often in the beginning.

Looking at them all, it was not hard to feel helplessness overcome Tracks.

"No one is coming to save us... it's been too long," the corvette continued, turning his own optics to the floor. "They would have come by now..."

Ratchet did not reply, giving his attention back to Mirage. A resigned silence fell over them, resting heavily on their shoulders and sparks.

**xxXxXxx**

The lights were dim, making it hard to see. That is, if a 'bot with regular optics were wandering around. Jazz, wearing his visor, had improved vision over the average mech and thus, the dimness meant very little to him. He tip-toed and padded silently down purple hallways, blending into the shadows and appearing as nothing but smoke to any cameras fixed in his area. All in all, invading the sunken Nemesis: not a problem. Finding his comrades, that was going to be difficult.

The Decepticon Warship's layout was pretty basic, and even underwater as it was, the brig would reasonably be positioned in the middle-lower half of the spacecraft. Jazz had swum to the very bottom of the Nemesis, where the storage rooms were usually located, brushing aside the sand and using that as a point of entrance. Even with Wheeljack's invention helping along the way, something like the hull being breached should have alerted the Decepticons by now. But there was no alarm going off, and no sign of the 'cons either. It left Jazz feeling a little uneasy, yet he was far more concerned about the others, and hurried on his way.

Maybe he should just count this as his lucky day or something? Primus watching over him or the like...

Jazz hurried up a couple more floors, slowing as his GPS readout said he was nearing the Decepticon brig. Cautiously, the saboteur checked his surroundings, and seeing no signs of the enemy, quickly punched in an override code before slipping into the brig. The darkness here was more potent than that of outside in the hallway. Letting his scanners do a sweep of the room, Jazz was grateful to find only four other signatures present. Low energy, yes, but present nonetheless. Like the silent breeze, the Special Ops officer hurried forward, a smile beginning to grow on his faceplates. It was a grin he had hoped to greet his missing comrades with.

That grin withered away once he looked past the energon bars, seeing the horrifying state the others were in. Anxiously, he punched in another override code, rushing into the cell before the bars had even fully dissipated. This action caused the bottom of his pedes to be singed, but it did not compare to the sickness that suddenly roiled through his fuel tanks.

"P-prime," Jazz choked, lifting a servo to his comm link. "Fo'get the mission. I'm bringin' 'em 'ot _now_."

The saboteur cut the connection before his superior could even utter a protest. Unable to tear his optics away from the sight of his comrades' mangled, fluid-covered, lax frames, Jazz crumpled to his knees; stuttering spark-broken apologies about not coming sooner.

**xxXxXxx**

Jazz was the first one out of the water as they reached the shore. Seeing the line of Autobots waiting for their friends, the saboteur stopped, mumbling back to the others to wait. His action confused those on the land, and Cliffjumper nastily made a comment implying the five of treachery. Jazz had to fight to ignore what the minibot had said, but it was obvious from his expression to everyone present that something was indeed wrong. "Sir," the Special Ops officer started, coming to a stop just before Optimus, "I need ya t' come down t' the sh're wit' meh, please. Alone."

"Now wait jus' one slaggin' klik," Ironhide replied. "Why would Prime ne'd ta-"

"It's alright, Ironhide," Optimus interjected. The red mech shuttered his optics at suddenly being cut off, unconsciously turning his vocalizer off. Turning to the saboteur, the truck nodded. "Lead on, Jazz."

Jazz's optics dimmed, but he dutifully turned, and led the Autobot leader down the beach, to the point where the tide touched the sand. "Sir, I'mma need ya t' transform and position your trailer t' the ocean. The oth'rs 'r gonna need t' ride inside ya."

Optimus did not question this strange request, already feeling his spark rotate in anxious whirls. With his trailer open now, the truck could feel his lost comrades shuffle inside slowly; evidently injured badly. Once everyone was securely within, Jazz manually closed the trailer doors, transforming to alt-mode. "Lead us home, sir," the smaller mech said, vocalizer attempting its usual cheery tone. It fell widely off the mark, increasing Optimus' unease further. Silently, the Prime rolled on out; his string of soldiers transforming and following behind.

The moment they returned to base, Optimus did as Jazz instructed and drove for the rec room. He was too big to drive in alt-mode to the medbay, where the ceiling had been slightly buckled in from when the Ark had first crash-landed on Earth. The rec room was the second best place to go to, the saboteur had said, and he asked that everybody else please stay away unless they were authorized to do opposite. The wave of confusion had yet to recede, and though many were worried, they did as the Special Ops officer asked. Optimus was soon to see why.

His soldiers -his comrades- shuffled out of his trailer like frightened petro rabbits. Transforming to bi-pedal mode made at least half of them flinch, one glare and the last not respond at all. "Ratchet...," Optimus tried to speak, but the medic quickly turned away from their Leader, guiding his companions over to the energon dispenser. Perceptor grabbed a cube and swallowed it down as if he had never seen one before; Ratchet took a cube that he sipped at once himself before trying to feed the rest of it to a distant Mirage, while Tracks merely looked at the machine.

Primus, they looked haunted...

Servos clenched into fists, the truck turned to Jazz. "What happened?!," he hissed, feeling rage course through him. What had Megatron done to these undeserving mechs?!

Jazz bowed his helm, shaking it sadly. "C-can't really say, s-sir," the saboteur struggled thickly. "T-they were l-like this when I f-found 'em... T-the ocean gone cl-cleaned off e-ev'rythin' else..."

"Everything el-?" Optimus cut himself off, all of his anger draining out of him as suddenly as it had come. With dread, he looked at the Special Ops officer with new sight, feeling his fuel tanks twist painfully. "D-do you mean to s-say..."

"Sir?" Both mechs startled at the unexpected voice. Turning, they saw Ratchet standing a few feet away from them; close enough to his other beaten comrades, but still a safe distance away from his superiors. Seeing that he had both of their attention now, Ratchet continued. "Sir, you're going to need to call the others in now. You'll need to be debriefed on the situation."

"W-who... who should we comm?," the Autobot leader inquired softly.

"As CMO, I state this as a medical emergency. Therefore, the only ones needed will be the standard officers. Everyone else can be told of the basics later, once all matters have been discussed here," the ambulance replied back monotonously.

Hearing it ripped at Optimus' spark. "Very well, Ratchet. Jazz, please go gather Smokescreen, Red Alert, Wheeljack, Prowl and First Aid please. Tell the others to return to their quarters for now; they'll get their answers later."

"Yes sir," the black and white mech saluted. Silently, he turned and left the rec room, to go gather the rest of his comrades that Optimus had listed.

When the others saw the state of their missing comrades, the reaction was the same. Most mechs were able to hold in their cries of alarm; some, like Red Alert and First Aid, were not able to silence the weak sound of distress. It was amazing how the ones those sounds were being directed at did not react to such attention. At Jazz's gesture, they all grabbed seats, forming a semi-circle around the others still hovering by the energon dispenser. As if under unanimous decision, Ratchet stood before them, servos crossed behind his back struts as he faced the other officers.

"What I tell you know is all I can give at this moment," the CMO started. "The actions done," he added, seeing the bafflement in the other Autobots' optics, "are not going to be easily erased or written over. Please understand then, where I also stand in this situation."

"What did happen, Ratchet?," Smokescreen asked.

The medic inclined his head toward the psychiatrist slightly. "Everything...," he answered vaguely. Somehow though, it was enough of an answer. "Smokescreen, I am charging you with the task of psyche evaluations for the four of us, and will be requiring you to set up daily counselling sessions for once we are all medically cleared."

This order stunned the mechs present. Before they could comment on it further, Ratchet continued on, "Red Alert I'll need you to be upping security measures here on the Ark and ask that you keep a 24-hour surveillance on the four of us. We should be easily located no matter what time of the day it is. Wheeljack, you're in charge of helping First Aid and myself with repairs. As well, I may need you to build some memory inhibitors. Prowl, until such a time as written by myself or Smokescreen, Tracks, Mirage, Perceptor and myself are to be taken off active duty. That is all."

"How can you say that is all, sir?!," First Aid cried, jumping to his pedes. The young Protectobot shook his helm at the callous finish. "Sir, something is clearly wrong. I-i...I just want to help, sir. We all do! Please, tell us- what happened?"

Ratchet turned away, unwilling to answer. "Sir?!," First Aid cried, vocalizer filling with static as the younger medic began to cry.

"What do you think happened?!," Tracks snapped angrily from behind the others.

"Tracks...," the CMO threatened lowly.

"What?," the corvette hissed, turning his helm to Ratchet. "It's not like they're not gonna find out anyways!" Returning his attention to the others, Tracks said, "They did exactly what most of you are thinking: they raped, tortured and beat us. Relentlessly, without provocation, mercilessly. So much for Autobot mentality, huh?"

No one could stutter a reply to those spat words.

Snorting in disgust, Tracks hunched his shoulder tires high, storming from the room; giving the others a wide berth as he made his hasty exit. At his confirmation, Perceptor started to cry again, lifting his servos to his helm and rocking in place slowly. Ratchet said nothing to the rest of the horrified, pitying optics resting on them; wrapping an arm around the distant Mirage and Perceptor both, leading them from the rec room and down towards the medbay.


	3. Chapter 3

The crew had to be told of what had happened.

Jazz had been elected as speaker to break the news to them, with Prowl and Smokescreen volunteering to be advocates. Red Alert had returned to his security hub after the officers' meeting, a confused Inferno trailing after him. First Aid and Wheeljack went directly for the medbay, intent on helping Ratchet begin repairs. Optimus himself tried to remain, determined to speak to his troops himself... but it was easy to see that the big Cybertronian was ready to fall apart at the seams. This revelation... who would have guessed that the Decepticons would stoop that low?

Even after all these years, they had never resorted to simply "playing" with their prisoners; raping and beating them without reasonable motive.

It was disgusting and shocked them all.

Jazz himself didn't seem to be the strongest. He was pacing nervously before the energon dispenser, where the others had stood earlier, shoulders tense and no smile to be found for miles on the saboteur's face. Everybody noticed this straight away when they filed into the room, but wisely did not comment on it. Even if they asked, Jazz would not answer. He had already said that he would not speak until the entirety of the crew was assembled. It was obvious that he didn't want to have to repeat this news twice.

"Whose still missing?," Smokescreen asked, leaning towards Prowl. The part-time gambler, part-time psychiatrist scanned the gathered mechs.

"Only Sunstreaker and Sideswipe now," Prowl replied, watching as Huffer finally stumbled into the room. "They were out on patrol when the rest of us went to go collect Jazz. I commed them immediately after the debriefing. They should be here in another klik or so."

The blue and red Datsun nodded his helm. "They'll be most vocal about this...," he sighed. "I'm worried Sunstreaker especially might do something drastic."

The SIC did not reply, merely frowning in acknowledgement. Nobody would take this news well...

**xxXxXxx**

It was silent in the medbay.

Never mind that there were a total of six mechs in there; not a sound was made, even as Ratchet set out his tools, Mirage sitting on the berth beside him. The entire area was cloaked in a misery that snuffed out all noise -impossible to break and just as suffocating. First Aid, helping set up things alongside Ratchet, kept shooting fervent glances towards Wheeljack. But the engineer had his own helm turned down, arranging a tray of medical tools near the berth that Perceptor sat on. Tracks, glaring at nothing in particular, stood in the darkest corner of the room; arms folded across his chassis.

This wasn't how things were supposed to be, First Aid cried silently. Ratchet's and the others' return should have been a joyous occasion. Maybe a little more somber, depending on some of the injuries they might of sustained. But not this...

Things should not have felt like a funeral march.

So lost within their own thoughts, no one heard the pounding set of pedes racing down the hallway until the medbay doors were flung open, a red blur rushing into the room. "Perceptor!," Sideswipe cried. The lamborghini took only an astrosecond to scope the room before he hurried towards the scientist, cheekplates stretched with a relieved smile. "Perceptor! I'm so glad-"

Perceptor screamed as the warrior attempted to make a grab for him, falling over the side of the berth as he hurried to get away. Sideswipe was shocked by this reaction and pushed forwards. "Perceptor, please-"

"GET OUT OF MY MEDBAY!," Ratchet roared, coming out of his stupor. The ambulance charged the lamborghini, body-checking the warrior. The unexpected strike and power sent Sideswipe flying back to the doorway; the red mech growling as he got back onto his pedes.

"What the FRAG Ratchet!?" Sunstreaker appeared in the doorway as well, just as Sideswipe screamed at the medic. The yellow twin narrowed his optics sharply at the tense scene, making to move forwards. Ratchet though was having none of this and quickly grabbed his wrench.

"GET OUT! GET OUT I SAID!" He flung the projectiles with all the force of a tank, making it hard for either of the lamborghinis to stop them, let alone dodge. But the CMO did not stop his assault, hurriedly grabbing for anything heavy once he ran out of wrenches. All the while, Perceptor wailed from behind the berth; arms over his helm and rocking in place.

"Let us see Perceptor!," Sunstreaker yelled, swatting away an incoming machine. It cracked into a hundred pieces against his forearm, scratching the golden paint. Not that the warrior noticed, he was too enraged that he was being denied from seeing the smaller mech.

"You can't stop us Ratchet!," Sideswipe added, charging back into the room. His brother copied his motion; the both of them intent on knocking the medic down. Ratchet though stood his ground, meeting the lamborghinis head on. The deafening crack of their colliding frames made everyone present cringe. Amazingly, the CMO remained standing, arms spread wide as he tried to wrestle back the two warriors.

"You... are...not...getting... in... HERE!," Ratchet bellowed, pushing at the Twins. Sunstreaker and Sideswipe attempted to fight against the medic's well of unbelievable strength, but found themselves floundering. They stood no chance when Tracks charged forwards as well, slamming into the lamborghinis and using his own force to shove the two larger mechs out of the room.

"You two are not allowed in here anymore," Ratchet hissed dangerously, standing in the doorway, breathing heavily like an enraged beast. "Don't attempt to come back."

Before Sideswipe or Sunstreaker could even reply, the medic stepped back, palming the door shut and locking it. Intakes still coming in large, choking gasps, Ratchet stood at the now closed doors; listening to the chaos settle around his audios again. From behind him, Wheeljack watched, torn.

The engineer had never seen the CMO so violent before... especially not towards his own crew. Sure, the Twins had a habit of fragging him off royally, but Ratchet always dealt with them patiently, with maybe an insult or wrench thrown here or there. He'd never acted as if he wanted to tear the two warriors apart, like he did just now. Tearing his optics away from his friend's back struts, Wheeljack found his attention falling to the rest of the mechs present. First Aid had his face buried deep into his servos, no doubt crying once again. Mirage stared unblinkingly ahead, apparently unaffected by anything that had just occurred. As for Perceptor... he was still curled up behind the berth, but in the silence that had followed the Twins' entrance, Tracks had made his way to the scientist; placing comforting servos on the microscope's shoulders as he wept.

It was the strangest sight that Wheeljack had ever seen.

Just how were they supposed to carry on when everything was suddenly different?

**xxXxXxx**

Sunstreaker and Sideswipe came storming into the rec room after their brutal rejection from the medbay. "What the frag happened to Perceptor!?," the red warrior shouted, heading for the back of the room.

Prowl scowled by Jazz's left, doorwings hitched high behind him. "You were supposed to come here directly upon reporting in. You weren't supposed to go loo-"

"We were just fragging THROWN from medbay by RATCHET!," Sideswipe continued, ignoring the SIC. He ground to a stop just before Jazz, denta bared. "Why the slag are we being banned from seeing him!?"

"'Sides, norm'lly I wouldn't argue wit' ya, but ya were told 't c'mere when ya return'd," Jazz answered tersely. "Ya bein' kick'd outta medbay is fair consid'rin' the circumstances-"

"HOW IS ANY OF THAT FAIR?! I DEMAND TO SEE PERCEPTOR NOW!"

Tension filled the room. The Autobots watched as Sideswipe -usually the calm, care-free twin- loomed over the saboteur, growling like a mad turbofox. Sunstreaker stood behind his brother, with all the composure of a building storm. Jazz himself glared up at the red warrior, scowl deepening.

" _Don't_ ," he hissed, "Ya dare _yell_ at meh. Yer not gonna see Percept'r any time soon 'nd that's final."

"This is all your fault!," Sideswipe shouted, anger gushing forward. "If you hadn't-"

"If I 'adn't WHAT, Sideswipe!?," Jazz finally snapped. "I was the one that disregarded Prime's ord'r, I made the call 't get them 'ot o' there. It was meh that saved them when they were on the brink o' offlinin'! If ya 'ad seen the state they were in... what the Decepticons did..." Static cut through the saboteur's vocalizer as his intakes suddenly heaved, coolant pooling just under the rim of his visor. Weakening before their very optics, the Special Ops officer dropped his arms by his sides, shoulder plating quivering as he mumbled to himself.

"I-i-i...I-i should have gotten t-there soon'r... b-but i-it was two w-weeks. T-two slagging w-weeks... I-i-i-i-i t-thought... I-i di-didn't think... I mean, t-they nev'r... T-they we-were da-damaged so b-bad and j-just c-cover'd... a-and the-their optics, _P-primus_... i-it's like t-they thought w-we'd aba-abandon'd 'e-em..."

Prowl hurriedly stepped forward, wrapping his arms tight about Jazz and turning the saboteur away from everyone's prying gaze. Sheltered in the SIC's grasp, Jazz broke down fully, servos clawing desperately at the Datsun's back. "P-primus! I-i-i-i-i... I-'m sorry! I'm _s-so sorry_! I should 'ave s-saved 'em sooner, I should 'ave-!"

"Ssh...," Prowl murmured, pressing his face to the other mech's helm. "Hush, Jazz. It's not your fault. You didn't know... _you didn't know_..."

"...w-what... what is he talking about?," Bumblebee asked nervously. The beetle turned to Smokescreen, the only mech really giving them anymore attention. The gambler glanced at Jazz and Prowl momentarily, before sighing softly and lifting pained optics to the rest of the crew.

"As of this moment, Ratchet has put the Ark under Emergency Medical Protocol," the red and blue Datsun explained. "There will be twenty-four hour surveillance watch on all areas of the ship, including various quarters. All items are to be studiously marked and inventory stats checked regularly. Medbay is out of bounds until further notice. If you need something fixed, First Aid is the one you will comm, and he'll meet you in your quarters to do the repairs. As for the others... you will keep yourself in check at all times. Follow standard procedures and be considerate to your fellow mechs once they are released from medbay. Is that understood?"

Helms nodded slowly in reply.

"But... what happened, Smokescreen? Why are we on lockdown?" The psychiatrist couldn't tell who had asked the question. It sounded like either Windcharger or maybe Hound.

The Datsun cycled a deep intake, trying to mentally prepare himself for his answer. But nothing he knew could ever really prepare him, or them, for what he was about to say next. "Megatron has proved his ruthlessness... Under his command, Tracks, Mirage, Ratchet and Perceptor were... raped. Continuously, brutally, and -from the looks of it- by more than one mech at a time."

Silence.

Utter silence.

Smokescreen shuttered his optics, doorwings on his back lowering with his despair. "That is all," he said to the other Autobots. "Prowl, if you'd be so kind to bring Jazz to my office please."

The SIC nodded his helm in understanding, lifting the weeping saboteur into his arms and following after the other Datsun. Once they left, the rest of the crew looked at each blearily, feeling almost strangely detached from their own frames. Was it true? Had Megatron really sunk so low?

Sunstreaker turned, punching the closest wall as he screamed in his rage, pounding the metal relentlessly. Sideswipe did nothing to stop his brother. Silently, the red lamborghini sunk to the floor, servos rising up to cradle his helm.

**xxXxXxx**

"You should get some sleep."

Ratchet lifted his optics from Mirage's chest, glancing briefly at Tracks before returning to his work. "I could say the same for you," the CMO replied, setting aside one tool for another.

The corvette shrugged. "Can't recharge. Besides, I'm not the one that's been bent over an unresponsive mech all orn," he pointed out. "You haven't even taken the time to repair yourself. You still speak in that hoarse croak."

"They don't matter," Ratchet said. "And what about the scratches and dents you've got? You going to take care of those?"

"They don't matter," Tracks retorted. The medic stopped his work, this time glaring at the multi-coloured mech. Tracks met his gaze head-on, refusing to back down or instigate the CMO further. After a moment, Ratchet turned back to Mirage's repairs with a huff.

"The work needs to be done," he explained after a couple of kliks. Tracks did not comment, arms folded across his chassis as he stood on the other side of the berth. "I'm the only one who can fix Mirage -neither Wheeljack or First Aid have the expertise."

"Not true...," the corvette mumbled, denying what the medic had to say. "First Aid is more than capable... you just refuse to let him do anything to Mirage."

Ratchet fixed one last broken cog inside of the spy, shutting Mirage's chestplates with a deft click. In the background, Perceptor stirred on his berth, before falling back deep into recharge. "And so what if I don't want First Aid repairing Mirage?," the ambulance hissed. "Do you really think that he can handle somebody else touching him at this moment. Do you really think-"

"No, I know he cannot," Tracks replied, cutting off the medic before he could break into another angry tirade. The corvette looked at the still conscious mech sympathetically. "It's the reason why you haven't put him under, though you would usually do so during such a procedure. You don't want to lose Mirage to those demons filling his helm right now. He's safest awake, here, where he can see us..."

Ratchet swallowed the rest of his words, glancing at Mirage's slacken faceplates. He had nothing to dispute against Tracks' statement. "Go back to recharge," he said after a klik, circling around the berth and manually retracting the spy's codpiece. He paused immediately after, expecting a reaction. Nothing came from the ex-Noble and slowly, the CMO continued, feeling anger and sadness well within his spark. He had to stop a breem afterwards though, once his study of the damaged area was complete.

"Slaggit... Damn them all. Damn those fragging glitches to the farthest regions of the Pit!"

Tracks turned his helm up at the medic's furious growl, frown on red lip components. "What's wrong?," he asked, slowly stepping to Ratchet's side.

The medic stepped back from Mirage, collapsing into a nearby chair. "The fraggers... Mirage, his seal was broken."

"What does that have to do with anything?," the corvette inquired, confused. He glanced at the ex-Noble's bared interface equipment, before respectfully turning his optics aside. It was ghastly, seeing the vicious, brutal state the Decepticons had left such an intimate area in.

Ratchet dropped his helm into a servo, folding weakly in his seat. "The fact that Mirage even had a seal is what's troubling. It means he's never been touched before. Should have expected it really...," the CMO mumbled to himself, "The Tower mechs were real snotty about preserving their creations' seals until the time that they were bonded to their designated mate... but I had thought that Mirage might have, after the War had started... I mean, he would be full-grown and with urges, and no intended left for him to wait for..."

"Oh...," Tracks said softly, finally having caught on to what Ratchet was muttering about. He looked to Mirage again, studying the dead mech before him. "They took his virginity. Those nasty, fragging glitched Decepticons..." Tracks bit his bottom lip component angrily. "They don't deserve to have been his first. They shouldn't have had that victory."

Ratchet sighed, lifting his helm again. "Why...," he whispered hoarsely. "Why are we the only ones able to still stand? After all of this... why is it that only you and I can even function on a semi-normal basis..."

Tracks turned to the CMO. "Because," he replied, shrugging. "We're the type of mechs who've slept around some. There have been multiple partners in our life; most being relationships that didn't extend past the night. Mirage and Perceptor, they haven't had the same experience as us. Mirage's never interfaced before, as we now know, and Perceptor can count all of his sexual interactions on one servo. We're different than them. So something like this... it's almost the same for us."

"No... it's not the same," Ratchet protested. "Not at all." The medic sighed again. "It's unfair how the younger ones must suffer this. If perhaps it had just been me, maybe-"

"Ratchet," Tracks intervened, cutting off the CMO's desperate reasoning. The corvette walked forward, gripping the medic's shoulder plating and giving it a good squeeze. "Don't drown yourself in 'what ifs'. What happened, happened. Now, we've got to move forward, and keep strong doing it. If not for ourselves... then, at least, for them."

The multi-coloured mech paused, glancing back at Perceptor and Mirage. "If we don't stay strong for them, then they'll never recover from this. Do you understand me?"

Ratchet cycled a shaky intake, offlining his optics against the coolant that arose. "Yes...," he agreed softly. "You're right."

Tracks smiled wearily. "Now, get some recharge," he ordered. "You're getting low on energy. Don't worry, I'll watch over Mirage until you wake." Looking up at the corvette, the medic nodded his helm, settling back further into his chair and activating his recharge protocols. It wasn't long before the ambulance had almost fully shut-down, finally resting after so long.

His own limbs heavy, Tracks returned to Mirage's berthside. He looked into his comrade's dim optics, servos clenching at his sides as no response came from those blue orbs. "They'll pay for what they've done Mirage," he whispered to the prone mech. "I promise you, they won't get away with this."

**xxXxXxx**

The cycles passed and when the hum of waking 'bots beyond the medbay began to sound, Ratchet too stirred slightly in his seat. Onlining slowly, a servo was set upon his shoulder plating, startling the medic for a moment before he recognized the touch. "I'll go get us some energon," Tracks told him dryly. "Mirage has remained the same the whole night through."

Ratchet nodded his helm, intakes spluttering in a yawn-like pattern. "O...okay," he mumbled, still not fully responsive.

Tracks did not wait to see what else the medic might have to say; heading immediately for the exit. He palmed the doors open, making sure that the locking mechanism was set on Auto-lock, before leaving. It meant that he would not be able to get back into the room at his own volition, but considering Ratchet had not given him the combination for the lock, it was the second best alternative to making sure that no unwanted mechs tried sneaking into the medbay while the CMO was still somewhat indisposed. Silently, Tracks headed down the hallways, making his way to the rec room.

It must have been some sort of blessing in disguise. Despite the hour, there were only a handful of mechs present in the rec room. Each and every single one of them fell silent upon the corvette's entrance, staring uncertainly at their fellow Autobot. Tracks did not mind. The looks he knew he could handle... everything else... Well, that was yet to be discovered. Ignoring them all, he strode purposefully to the energon dispenser, grabbing at least six cubes and beginning to fill them up. He had finished little more than two-thirds before the expected interruption came.

"Tracks! You're out of medbay."

The corvette hunched his shoulder tires high, glaring as First Aid sidled up to his side, the meek little medic glancing at the other mech anxiously. "I didn't think that you'd be out and about so soon," the protectobot continued, playing with his fingers nervously. "Y-you haven't yet been repaired..."

"I can wait," Tracks replied, starting to gather the already-filled cubes. He subspaced them, impatiently waiting for the last cube to fill so he could escape First Aid's attention, and henceforth, his inappropriate confrontation.

"But, your arm!," the medic protested. "I noticed it last night -the metal, it's all warped! You've been repeatedly removing those panels haven't you? Ratchet mentioned that you were giving the others transfusions, to keep them functioning. Without the proper tools and in the brig, where all sorts of rust and decay abound, the risk of infection is high and without proper treatment, you-"

First Aid choked as he was suddenly shoved against the wall, thick arm pressed against his neck cables, restricting the flow of energon. "Shut up," Tracks hissed, looming over the smaller mech, "Just shut up!"

Behind them, mechs slowly got to their feet; worried that they might have to intervene. Tracks noticed this and snorted disapprovingly. He backed up, releasing First Aid, gathering his final cube and heading for the doorway. "W-wait -Tracks!," First Aid coughed weakly behind the corvette. "Please, I didn't mean to upset you! What you did -it was a very heroic thing. You saved the others' lives! You're a hero!"

"A hero...?," the multi-coloured mech sneered, pausing in the doorway. He turned his helm back into the room, glancing at each of the mechs present. "Heroes are the ones that end up dead. We weren't so lucky, _were we_?"

Scoffing again, Tracks hurried from the room and back to the medbay.


	4. Chapter 4

Perceptor and Tracks were listed as physically fit two days after they returned to the Ark, and were given permission to leave the medbay. Both did so, hesitantly; one, not wishing to be out of his place of refuge, while the other didn't want to have to deal with the cold comforts the others would force upon him. It was not surprising then, that both Autobots restricted themselves to their quarters. Ratchet himself, after finally having let First Aid tend to him, was also well enough to leave. But, despite his own orders, the medic refused to stop working until Mirage himself was given a clean bill of health... and that, the CMO knew, would take hours of more labouring over the distant mech. The rest of the Autobots scarcely walked the halls anymore.

None knew what to say, or how to respond to this sudden tragedy.

The Ark, for the first time in its function, was silent like the catacombs of Cybertron.

**xxXxXxx**

"First Aid... where's Wheeljack?"

The protectobot startled at the sudden inquiry, dropping his tools to the floor. The clanging echoed in the silent medbay, drawing a scrupulous glance from Ratchet. Mumbling apologies, the smaller medic quickly gathered up his fallen items, placing them back on their tray. "W-what was that, sir?," First Aid stuttered, anxiously looking towards his superior.

Ratchet kept his optics fixed on Mirage; exchanging one tool for another. "I asked where Wheeljack was," the CMO said. "He should have been here by now to help. There's still the matter of those memory inhibitors I've asked him to build as well... Those will need to be installed as soon as possible."

First Aid bit his lower lip component, dropping his gaze to the floor. He shuffled uncomfortably when he sensed Ratchet stop his work, giving his protege his full focus. "H-he... he's not coming,"the protectobot confessed softly. "H-he sa-says that h-he can't g-get away from h-his work at t-the moment..."

Whatever small emotion that was on Ratchet's face was wiped clean from the white plating. "I see...," he replied shortly. He turned back to Mirage. "First Aid, kindly bring me the torch please, and the spare plating."

"Y-yes sir..."

"And when you're done that, disinfect those tools before putting them away."

"Of course, R-ratchet, sir."

**xxXxXxx**

"Tracks... welcome."

Smokescreen stood up from his seat as the corvette entered his office, gesturing slowly to the chair waiting just across from him. He did not sit himself until the other mech had done so; folding his servos, the gambler stared at his comrade.

"You're the first one to see me-"

"I feel so honored," Tracks cut in snidely.

Smokescreen cycled a deep intake, trying to keep his faceplates neutral. He could feel it though, the sorrow and sympathy rising up within him. "The others are not yet ready to see me, but they all will in time. For now, as you are the strongest, I will need to speak with you."

The corvette turned his helm to the side slightly, looking about the room indifferently. "What do you want me to say?," he asked, tone flat. "I believe I've already given you the basics of our imprisonment."

"Yes," the Datsun agreed, "If it is too painful... then please, do not force yourself. We have two cycles together, everyday. We can talk about whatever you'd like."

Tracks turned his face back front, optic ridge lifted. "So that's it then? Your so called 'counselling' is to let me jabber on for the next two cycles about anything from the birds and the bees to paint colours, until I'm free to go back out there, with the rest of this ramshackle crew? To avoid them like they avoid me?" The winged mech snorted. "What kind of psychiatrist are you?"

"Tracks... please...," Smokescreen said. The words the corvette had tossed at him hurt; as they were intended, they cut past the metal and alloy of his plating, twisting deep into his spark. "This is a delicate matter. How each of you heals, varies on the me-"

"Delicate?," Tracks interrupted again. He laughed, short and joyless, fixing his optics with the Datsun's. "How is anything of this case delicate? You see this..." The multi-coloured mech pointed to a jagged weld across his chassis. "First Aid had to tear the plating open here to fix it. Poor lil' thing could barely muster the strength... he sobbed the entire way through. The metal was all torn and slammed back together from when Brawl decided I wasn't being 'loud' enough to his liking. 'Con thought he was going to be funny and rip right down to my spark. He overloaded before he got that far..."

Smokescreen tried not to shudder at the revelation.

"And this?," the corvette continued, pointing to yet another mark. This one was a recently filled fracture mark smack dab in the middle of his wing. "Motormaster did this one. He was afraid his thrusting would send me flying. He was right in a sense... That giant brute thrusts like a drilling rig. Lots of swing in one powerful motion. I thought he would tear me in half just having that spike of his inside of me, but it didn't compare to the pain of my wings when his brilliant processor decided the best way to keep me in place was to pin me down. By ramming steel pipes through each wing."

Black fingers were moving on to the next, still visible wound. "And this is from Ramjet's-"

"Stop!," the gambler cried. Smokescreen buried his face into his servos, unable to halt the quivering of his doorwings as the images filled his processor. The detail... it made his fuel tanks roil uneasily, and the Datsun seriously thought he might purge. "S-stop it..."

"But, Smokescreen," Tracks quipped in mock innocence, tilting his helm to the side. "I thought that's what we were supposed to be doing in a counselling session: talk things out about my rape. Don't you want to know about all the other, interesting little circumstances in which I got each of these scars?"

"Not like this!," the other mech yelled back, jumping to his pedes. He looked at the corvette, stunned, not seeing even a hint of guilt on those red faceplates. "I'm trying to help you... and you're making a mockery of it! Why can't you just cooperate?"

The multi-coloured Autobot rose to his pedes slowly. Leaning across the desk, he growled, "Why can't you just mind your own business?"

Smokescreen shuttered his optics, entirely lost. Snorting again, Tracks pulled back, heading for the door. "Try and see if you can help the others, doctor," he called back over a wing, "See if you can't save them. But as for me..."

Tracks stopped at the doorway, glaring back at Smokescreen. "Don't you ever try to pretend as if you understand; could even begin to grasp where I'm coming from. I want nothing to do with your presumptuous 'help'."

He turned back to the front, exiting the office.

"...what could you possibly do to save me anyhow...?"

**xxXxXxx**

The silence of the hallways was disrupted by a persistent rapping. Annoyed, more than curious about the source, Tracks altered his course on his way back to his room. His path eventually led him deeper into the Ark, getting increasingly closer to the labs and the scientists' quarters. Knowing how this next played out, the corvette was not all that surprised to find the Twins at Perceptor's door as he rounded the corner. Sunstreaker and Sideswipe looked horrible... Both mechs were covered in a fair layer of dirt and scratches, no doubt the end result of endless hours racing out in the desert. Their usually high-held helms and strong shoulders were bowed in defeat, as they huddled weakly outside Perceptor's door; Sideswipe lightly knocking on the metal every five kliks.

"Please... Percy...," the red warrior whispered desperately. "We just want to talk... please... let us in..."

As before, Tracks was guessing, there came no answer. Sunstreaker curled his servos into tight fists, hunching against the wall as some strong, undefinable emotion ripped through him. His twin bit back his own burst of static that slipped past his lip components, pressing his palm flat to the door as he dropped his helm further. It appeared as if they might break down and cry at any moment...

His last pede-fall must have been too loud.

The lamborghinis turned their helms in his direction, expressions tightening as they glared at the corvette. It only lasted a moment before they quickly dropped their gazes again, turning stiffly and walking down the other end of the hall.

Only after they were gone, did Tracks walk forward, coming to a stop before Perceptor's door. The mech remained silent, looking over each wing, checking to see if anyone else still lingered in the hallway. Of course, no one did, and only Skyfire and Wheeljack had rooms here as well. One of whom was now avidly avoiding the lot of them, and the other who happened to be away on a mission during this unfortunate circumstance.

There was the soft hiss of the doors opening, and the corvette was engulfed in shaking arms. They wrapped around his chassis tightly, blunt fingertips practically digging into his back struts as Perceptor buried his face into the blue finish of his chestplates. Silently, Tracks responded, setting a strong servo on the bowed helm arch.

"Let's get you to Ratchet...," he said softly, turning the both of them down the hall.

Perceptor did not reply, but gripped the taller mech tighter; allowing himself to be led away.

**xxXxXxx**

Intakes spluttering, Tracks wrenched himself out of recharge, flying upwards on his berth. He stopped -pedes to the floor, and servos gripping the edge- as he slowly realized that he was all alone, within his own room and certainly not chained. The fear and anxiousness seeped out of his energon lines within that moment, leaving nothing but the roiling hatred and disgust to fill him.

Why had he thought about those things while asleep?

Why did he have to think of S-

The corvette quickly flicked his helm to the side, derailing that train of thought right there. He archived the file, pushing it to the farthest depths of his memory banks and burying it behind more and more files of mundane slag. Keeping a lock and an alert on the folder, Tracks hoped that his processor would never wander down that path again. No longer affected by the wayward memories, his cooling fans began to settle down again; heat escaping his frame and charge dissipating into a harmless, little buzz across his circuitry.

With an exhausted groan, the multi-coloured mech laid back on his berth... and found that he was too wound up now to return to recharge.

Cursing lowly, Tracks rose fully this time, storming from his room none too quietly.

**xxXxXxx**

"Here again?"

The corvette greeted Ratchet with the same bland glare the medic gave him, before turning and promptly plopping himself in the nearest chair. Ratchet did not comment on the action, returning to his tools, where he had currently been cleaning them. Tracks, in the meantime, took a moment to survey the dimly-lit medbay. He recognized the new, gleaming paint on Mirage's frame; in the back of the room, curled on a berth, Perceptor's recharging form.

"He came back," the multi-coloured Autobot remarked, having yet to remove his optics from the scientist's back struts.

The CMO looked up, following Tracks' line of sight. "Yes," he replied softly. "He couldn't recharge. Same as you. He was in recharge barely ten kliks afterwards."

"That makes it, what? A decacycle now."

Ratchet sighed quietly. "Just about."

"And Mirage," Tracks went on, turning his gaze to the ex-Noble. "You've finally finished all the repairs?" He got to his pedes again, walking up to Mirage's berthside.

"Yes," the medic answered again. "He's completely repaired now... in terms of wounds in either case. I don't know how long it will before he can ever be labelled as mentally sound. Perhaps Smokescreen's sessions can help him reach that point, considering Wheeljack has been too preoccupied to complete the memory inhibitors that I asked of him."

At Ratchet's last comment, the corvette snorted. Scowling, the CMO turned to the other mech. "What?," he growled, immediately jumping onto the offensive. His servo curled around the handle of a wrench.

Slowly, Tracks looked up from Mirage, leveling his optics with Ratchet's. "Nothing," he replied. "I was just thinking that Smokescreen might make things worse. Psychologist he may be marked as under the duty roster, but that mech has no idea what the frag he's doing."

"He hasn't had to handle a situation like ours...," Ratchet tried to defend the Datsun.

"And that excuses him?!," Tracks was quick to snarl back. The CMO forcibly withdrew his servo, leaving the wrench on the tray with the other tools.

"No," he quipped dryly.

"But," the medic added, when the corvette returned to his study of the white spy. "He is trying."

"I suppose when compared to the rest of our so called, 'comrades', it's nice to know that he doesn't treat us like we've got the cyber plague." Ratchet frowned further at the callous comment, but decided not to speak on it. Though it seemed his mouth had other ideas...

"That's not the case..."

"Oh, is it?," Tracks said, cutting off the CMO. He turned to face the white mech, wings held stiffly behind his back. "Tell me Ratchet, have you even been outside of medbay these past weeks? Have you gone to the rec room, yourself, to get a cube? Have you bothered to even try and go see Prime in the control room?"

No response.

"No... I didn't think so." The corvette shook his helm, turning his back to the medic. "Believe me Ratchet, things are better within this room. At least no one skirts around you, gazes fixed on anything but you. Or worse...their optics pitying as they stare relentlessly at you, when they can be bothered to remember that you exist."

Ratchet could not reply to that. He wanted to -a part of him, deep within- wanted to fight spark and chassis over such a declaration. But even the medic had been aware of the glances First Aid constantly shot him; how desperate the younger protectobot seemed to take all of Ratchet's duties on to himself, trying to force the CMO into resting.

He could only imagine how much worse it was outside of his medbay...

Tracks was keeping silent vigil over Mirage still. Quietly, hesitantly, the multi-coloured mech lifted a servo, barely resting it on the ex-Noble's helm arch. "...At least you managed to get him to recharge eventually..."

The medic shifted, unnerved by the comment. He was grateful when people could be bothered to thank him for his work, but this had been a task that he rather not be mentioned again. He never wanted to have to fix anyone -especially a comrade- of wounds of this kind of nature.

"Go back to recharge, Tracks," he instead said, turning around tersely. He occupied himself with his tools, taking them back to their drawers. "You can sleep on any of the berths you like."

Exhausted now, the corvette decided to take Ratchet's offer instead of fighting him on it. With drooping wings, he headed to the farthest one, a good distance away from either of the three other mechs in the room. It did not take him long either to slip back into recharge.

**xxXxXxx**

With Mirage completely repaired now, medbay really did not need to be sanctioned off from the rest of the crew. But even if its doors had been open again to the general public, it seemed unlikely that any of the other Autobots would have dared tread inside. Ratchet was glad for it, if only because it became more and more apparent that they still needed a refuge to call their own.

Perceptor, unable to handle the Twins' constant confrontation, escaped every orn to the medbay; curling up on whichever berth he chose that night and recharging that way. Still reminded of their banishment from last time, Sunstreaker and Sideswipe steered clear of the medbay and its hallways.

Mirage was not yet able to handle being out in the rest of the Ark himself yet. The following morning that the spy had woken up, Tracks and Ratchet had attempted to guide him to the rec room for some energon. They had made it all the way into the room, before the ex-Noble broke out into convulsions, refusing to go any further. Ratchet slipped a sedative into the hysteric race car's systems, knocking Mirage into stasis, before lifting him up and bringing him back to medbay.

The spy still had yet to leave, though Smokescreen had been making it his business to come and see Mirage in the medbay for his counselling sessions. A very quiet affair, since the Datsun couldn't get a word out of the other mech.

Ratchet tried to go and get his own fuel rations during these moments when Mirage was under another's supervision, but found that even he couldn't stomach being watched by those few optics. He eventually gave up entirely, retreating to the sanctity of his domain once more, letting First Aid continue bringing him his energon.

Tracks could care less. The corvette strode where ever he pleased around the Ark, wings high and optics narrowed. He hated the looks he was given, but a glare in that 'bot's direction quickly turned that attention the other way. Fury waged within him, thick and sludge-like, clouding his spark with its murky darkness. He wanted to scream, to cry, to tear and break something until everything he felt inside just stopped. But there was no outlet for him to find, and despite growing increasingly annoyed and disgusted with his crewmates, the multi-coloured mech was not about to release that chaos on the others.

It would only give Smokescreen more incentive to badger him...

With this evidence set before them, the futility of recovery started to cement itself in the Autobots' processors, darkening the gloom that hung over the Ark like a burial shroud.

**xxXxXxx**

There was a knock on the door.

"Yes?," Smokescreen called, turning away from his datapad. The door opened, granting admittance to the yellow and red lamborghinis that stood just on the other side.

"Smokescreen... can we talk?," Sideswipe started, coming into the office. He paused immediately, upon seeing Perceptor, hunched over timidly in his seat.

"Sideswipe, Sunstreaker. Can it wait? I'm just finishing up with Perceptor."

"N-no...," the scientist whispered meekly. The Datsun turned to him curiously. "I-it's alright, S-smokescreen. I-i-i'll just g-go now."

"Are you sure Perceptor?," the gambler asked. "You've still got a few kliks left..."

Perceptor shook his helm, slowly rising to his pedes. "N-no, i-it's okay. Th-they w-wish to talk t-to you, a-and I'm d-done an-anyways..." The microscope held his arms close to his chassis, turning to the doorway.

"Well, alright, Perceptor," Smokescreen sighed. "Please, take care. I'll see you again, same time tomorrow." The scientist did not linger any longer, quickly making for the exit. He paused some as the twins moved out of his path, looking up at them anxiously before dropping his gaze to the floor and practically fleeing from the room.

Sideswipe and Sunstreaker watched him go, expressions withdrawn. Smokescreen stood up, coming up behind the two burly warriors and resting a servo each on their shoulder armour. "Just give him time," the Datsun said. "It...it's been hard on him, on all of them, and this is just the first step in their recovery. He'll speak with you again soon enough."

"...I just wish it was sooner," Sideswipe muttered brokenly. Sunstreaker said nothing, tearing away from Smokescreen's comforting touch. "W-we just... we lo- care for him. We don't want him to ignore us like this."

There was not much the psychiatrist could say to this; no matter how he wished it. "Come," he invited, walking back to his desk. "Take a seat."

Slowly, the two mechs did so.


	5. Chapter 5

It was quiet when Skyfire landed outside of the Ark. Transforming, he headed into the half-buried ship, a soft smile on his face. His exploration trip had been a disaster in terms of scoping out reusable fuel sources for energon conversion, but the scientist had still been able to find and catalogue many different organisms during it. He was most eager to get back to his lab and evaluate the specimens he had found with the proper tools at hand. The space shuttle thought to even invite Perceptor, knowing that it would also delight his crewmate.

Lost in his pleasant thoughts, the white mech almost didn't notice the somber silence that filled the halls. "What are you smiling about?," came a vicious growl. Skyfire started at the unexpected verbal assault, turning his helm down to see the minibot Cliffjumper at his left.

"I'm sorry," the scientist began, "Have I done something wrong? I can see that it is very quiet- am I disrupting a memorial or something of the nature?"

The red mech almost spat at the other 'bot's naivety. "Would be better if that was the case," he grumbled, turning around and going down a separate hallway. Confused, Skyfire followed after him for a few short pede-falls.

"I don't believe I quite understand. Would you be so kind as to explain to me, Cliffjumper?," the space shuttle requested politely.

Skyfire knew in part that the minibot could be very volatile, but he never expected the beetle to whirl around on him; tugging a large blaster from subspace and aiming it at the giant mech's face. "Go," Cliffjumper hissed, "Bother someone else."

Satisfied that he had made his warning clear, the smaller Autobot once again faced the other way, quickening his pede-falls as he stomped away. Grumbles of 'Decepticons' and 'tyrants' slipping out from beneath his intakes. Confused, and slightly unnerved now, Skyfire turned in the opposite direction, ducking his helm as he entered into another hallway. Perhaps Ratchet would be more kinder in explaining the things that had happened since he had left, once he visited the medic for his standard check-up.

**xxXxXxx**

_Beep..._

_Beep, bip, beep..._

_...beep..._

_Be-_

Trembling fingers moved away from his comm link, wrapping around the edges of his wrench. Ratchet tried to focus on his tools, cleaning them as he had meant to do, but he was too distracted in his thoughts to give them the same amount of dedication that he usually did. The medic's attention span only lasted that of a few more astroseconds before he was reaching for his comm link again. The sound of it trying to make a connection rang through the empty medbay; loud and almost mocking.

When he gave up this time, Ratchet waited almost a full klik, before he tried again. The small click on the other end announced that the call got through. "'Ello?," came Wheeljack's voice.

For a moment, the CMO didn't know what to say. Silence stretched over the comm link, as both sides didn't speak for a few astroseconds. Wheeljack was the first to break it. "Ratchet...? Is that you?"

"Y-yes," the white mech replied hoarsely. "Wheeljack, I've been waiting patiently for you to finish those memory inhibitors, but I haven't heard or seen a word of you since. If there is a problem developing them, I will be more than glad to assist you in the medbay. Repairs, as you might know or not, have been completed on the rest and Smokescreen has already begun counselling sessions, which means that the space necessary for any of your inventions is once more available if that is what's kept you for stopping by. It would probably be best if you did come in for a check-up. Primus knows what sort of injuries you have received while building your contraptions and we know you always brush them off, despite the fact that so many of them are more serious than you give them credit for. And another thing-"

He was rambling, he knew. The words were just gushing from his vocalizer without restraint, suppressed for so long; a shield for the real things Ratchet wanted to say. He wasn't so surprised then when the engineer finally did cut him off. What twisted and tore at his spark was what the other Autobot said itself.

"Ratchet," Wheeljack cut in. His tone was flat, almost cold. "Don't bother me again." And he hung up.

The CMO didn't know how long he stood there afterwards; his servo having dropped back down to his side shortly after the connection had been brutally cut. His sense of reality was slipping, shattering, and he could barely focus on it, let alone his own self.

"...Ratchet? Ratchet, is everything alright?"

Large, warm servos were turning him around gently, sympathetic -if not surprised- blue optics meeting his own. "Ratchet? What happened?"

Ratchet realized he was crying only then. It took him another few astroseconds to notice that the mech facing him was Skyfire. Quickly, the ambulance tore himself away from the shuttle, putting distance between them as he turned his back to the scientist, wiping hurriedly at his face. "S-skyfire... What are you doing here?," he snapped, more harshly then he had meant to.

He caught the giant Autobot flinch slightly at his words, servos lowering to his sides in apology. "My apologies Ratchet, I did not realize that I had overstepped my boundaries. I've only just returned, and I know that you are rigid in your wishes that a 'bot come in for the standard check-up after returning," Skyfire tried to explain himself.

"Perhaps... I should come back at another time...?"

Ratchet had to refrain from laughing bitterly. Out of all the mechs who'd ever actually listen to him, it had to be Skyfire. "You haven't reported in, have you?," the medic asked, glancing coolly at the scientist. Only a dumb-founded expression met his gaze. "No...of course not. Otherwise, you would not be here. No one would be..."

Skyfire was becoming increasingly worried. He'd never seen Ratchet so... he hesitated on the word sad. He could sense a deep well of sorrow within his fellow Autobot, but it seemed wrapped up tight in a whole web of other things. Things that made the medic lash out and snap like he was. Now, the scientist was certain that something had happened while he was away, something drastic enough to even make the most sensible of the crew suddenly mistrustful and cold.

"Ratchet...," Skyfire started, speaking softer than he usually did. He took a step forward, but when he noticed the ambulance stiffen at the action, quickly withdrew again. "I... would very much like to know what happened. Might you be willing to tell me?"

The medic eyed him warily, as if not believing the shuttle's sincerity. "You wouldn't want to know...," he hissed, "...believe me..."

The flyer responded to that by gently sitting on one of the medical berths nearby. "I think you might be surprised," he replied kindly.

Ratchet didn't know what to do. He turned fully, staring at Skyfire in shock, stunned by the compassion, concern and sympathy he saw being reflected in the other's optics. And that was all directed to him, and him alone. The mention of a willing listener though took the cake for the CMO. Unable to fight it any longer, Ratchet broke down.

**xxXxXxx**

Teletraan I's alarm going off startled almost all of the mechs aboard the Ark. Tracks, sitting in the rec room, dominating a corner as he choked down a ration, watched as everyone around him cringed at the awful noise; gazes flickering between the intercom and each other anxiously. The computer kept repeating over and over in its monotonous tone, announcing that a human warning had been dispatched from an oil rig off the west coast and that the Decepticons were there, attacking as usual. At first, no one moved. It took Ironhide getting to his pedes, and grumbling under his intakes, before anyone else could respond.

Every mech in the room, with the exception of Tracks, headed for the door; some hurrying out to prepare for the battle ahead, while the others lagged behind hesitantly. Jazz, surprisingly, was one of these stragglers. "Tracks...," he said, coming up to the corvette's table. He met the other Autobot's gaze head on, his lip components pressed into a tight line. "We'll do everything we can to make them pay."

Tracks did not reply.

Nodding his helm, the saboteur slunk out of the rec room, heading after the others. The winged mech waited about a klik, before he stood up as well. He walked out into the hallways, wandering away from the exit and down to his quarters. Even from where he was, he could hear the others talking and clanging about loudly as they rushed to respond to the SOS. The Twins were most vocal... If Tracks cared, he would probably have sworn that he heard Sideswipe shouting that he'd tear a certain seeker apart, piece by agonizing piece.

But their words and promises of harm meant nothing to the corvette. They did not carry the same burning, crippling flames of hatred in them like he did; they did not thirst for vengeance like the damned sought the life-energy of the living. With such weak, flimsy emotions spurring them on, the Autobots were likely to fail.

Tracks knew though that he wouldn't.

He couldn't afford to.

**xxXxXxx**

If anyone thought that things couldn't have gotten worse, the Universe turned around and proved their pitiful hopes were also useless. The Autobots had lost to the Decepticons -and _hard_. The medbay was filled to the brim with injured mechs, just like it had been the day that Ratchet, Tracks, Mirage and Perceptor had been taken prisoner; the only difference this time being that no one was captured during the fray and taken back to the Nemesis. Unable to deny access to the ones who needed it most, Ratchet had opened the medbay doors, him and First Aid doing their best to tend to the most injured.

Skyfire was there as well. Since finding out about the evil that had occurred, he had been most horrified and devastated that such a thing could happen -even worse, that a mech he had once cherished dearly as a close friend and scientist would also be part of this cruelty. The shuttle had taken his own pledge right then and there to help these poor souls as best as he could, giving the comfort and support they needed, that no one else seemed to be willing to give them. Since then, he'd never strayed far from Ratchet's side. Though no medic, Skyfire was determined to do the best that he could, hopefully making up for Wheeljack's much needed help in this moment.

"First Aid! I need the clamps- NOW!," Ratchet roared, trying to stem the excessive energon flowing out of Hound's mangled frame. The bright, pink liquid -turned a dirt-streaked magenta now- splashed to the floor from the gaping wound making up most of the tracker's left side, as he continued to howl in agony. The protectobot scrambled to answer the demand, while the CMO fought with his own demons.

The scent of fresh energon and scorched metal was getting under his plating. Flashes of a much longed to be forgotten scene crackling across his vision; his dirty, damaged servos trying to peel back red plating, fluorescent, pink liquid trickling brightly through the dank and darkness of their prison. "Ratchet... Ratchet, it's alright," a soothing voice assured, gently brushing his servos out of the way.

Ratchet relented to Skyfire's intervention, allowing the bigger mech to clamp down the ruptured fuel lines, stopping Hound from bleeding out right there on the table. Cycling a deep intake to calm himself down, the CMO nodded his helm to show that he was alright, taking control of his patient once more.

"First Aid," he snapped, grabbing a set of tools off of the waiting tray. "First Aid, get started on Ironhide. He needs a shot of morphine and a neck brace to steady his helm. Check for cranial damage and if you find nothing serious, strap him down to keep him from jostling himself when he wakes up, then move on to someone else."

"Y-yes sir!," First Aid saluted. "R-right aw-away, sir."

"Is there anything you need me to do Ratchet?," Skyfire asked, already scoping the rest of his injured comrades. There was a lot of work to do, for just three mechs, and the others that were more qualified for this were out of commission or just missing. At the very least, the scientist was confident enough that he could administer anaesthesia and do small patch-jobs on the less damaged.

The CMO didn't reply to the question right away, too busy with his servos deep inside of Hound's ragged wound. "I may need you Skyfire," he eventually answered after a moment, grunting as he dug a nasty piece of shrapnel out from the jeep's interior. "Scratch that- I will need you. Run and go get me a transfusion from the storage closet, middle-grade. Second door on the left there." Ratchet pointed vaguely over a shoulder.

"Understood," the scientist replied, hurrying to get the required item. He headed in the general direction of where the medic had pointed, looking uncertainly at the three doors before him. Ratchet had said the left... but which left? Skyfire just shook off his thoughts, grabbing the first handle within his reach and opening the door. This was not the storage closet he was seeking. "Smokescreen...?"

The Autobot's psychologist glanced over a doorwing at the shuttle, standing tensely before Ratchet's desk. The Datsun shuttered his optics slowly, turning his focus back to the corner of the room he had been previously staring at. Skyfire's silent inquiry as to what the other mech was doing here, instead of out with the others, was answered when he noticed the flickering light. Streams of pixels kept fading in and out of view, offering glimpses of white and blue plating of a frame huddled tightly in the corner. It took only one guess to deduce that it was Mirage. Sharing a look of understanding with Smokescreen, Skyfire shut the door, turning to the next one. This was the one he was looking for.

**xxXxXxx**

Sunstreaker grit his denta tightly as another wave of pain tore through him, increased by his frame's sudden jolting; the basic programming's will to escape the torture it was experiencing. He could feel Sideswipe fold beside him, spitting a wad of muddy energon to the floor. With the damages they had taken this time, both warriors were stuck on the floor, waiting for when the berths and attention could be spared for them. The pain was worth it though, because they had Starscream's twisted face looping through their processor; the seeker screeching in pain as they pounced on his back, ripping his wings off and crunching his cockpit glass. Each of the seekers, except for that tricky teleporter, had been given the jet judo treatment -Demolition style. The Twins' servos were mangled and dirty, covered in energon and streaks of paint, but at least their need for revenge had been quelled some.

"Told you I'd bash that stupid cone of his in Dirge's face," Sideswipe mumbled weakly, cradling his cracked forearm. Skywarp had gotten in a lucky hit when the red lamborghini had attempted to make another swipe at the downed Thundercracker. Sunstreaker silently assured him that they would get the teleporter back ten-fold.

"Should have shoved it up his greasy valve," the yellow twin grunted back.

Sideswipe chortled painfully at that. "Look at the Hatchet go," he commented after a moment, optics following Ratchet from across the room. "Shouting and threatening like usual..." Sideswipe did not make note of how it felt almost good to have some sort of normalcy return, even if it came out of another horrible situation. Anyone in the medbay would have willingly attested to that.

Sunstreaker made some sort of sound in the back of his vocalizer, shifting gently against his brother. His optics were still roving the helms of the crew gathered in the packed medbay, hoping to see a familiar rosy red frame. No one needed to tell them that they were looking in vain. The red warrior exhaled slowly, pushing tighter against his brother. It hurt, doing so, but the steady, solid frame of his twin offered the comfort he was desperate for at this moment.

He knew that the same could be said for the yellow lamborghini.

Something heavy dropped onto the floor in front of them, startling the two mechs, optics onlining in a rush. They watched, dumbstruck, as a mech followed the path of the medical bag he had dropped; trembling servos pulling out various tools and soldering materials. "P-perceptor?," Sunstreaker was the first to say, his servos automatically lashing out and grabbing hold of the scientist's arm.

The smaller Autobot looked up at them and the Twins were surprised to see tears tracking down Perceptor's cheekplates. But the look of determination and overwhelming worry on the microscope's face told them that he would not be running away this time. "J-just...," Perceptor croaked softly, gently pulling out of the yellow warrior's grasp, "L-lie down, alright? I need t-to tend to your i-injuries."

Sideswipe nodded mutely as Sunstreaker leaned back against the wall with him; the lamborghinis allowing the scientist to shuffle a little closer, carefully grasping the torn plating on one twin's side and easing it apart to get to the damaged circuitry within. It was quiet between them as Perceptor did their repairs.

Eventually, after the shaking mech had welded his side plating back together and had moved on to clean and bang out the dents in Sunstreaker's servos, Sideswipe decided to speak. "Perceptor...?," he whispered, gaze fixed on the microscope intently.

Perceptor cringed a little at the call of his name; turning his helm slightly and glancing up at the red mech anxiously.

Though the reaction made his fuel tanks twist in ill, the prankster twin shoved all those emotions aside, making sure that none of his anger, or disgust or sadness reflected in his optics. Instead, he smiled softly to the scientist, continuing in a gentle, caring manner with a simple, "Hi."

Surprise flashed across the smaller Autobot's face, before tears were again trailing down his cheekplates, but this time accompanied by a small smile on Perceptor's lip components. "Hello," he replied, in just as quiet a hush.

Sideswipe's smile grew an inch in relief and hope; Sunstreaker's optics dimming as a look of gentleness made itself known on the usually scowling mech's face.

**xxXxXxx**

Tracks tossed and turned on his berth, rolling onto his back and glaring up at the ceiling above. Memories and dreams, both unwanted and hated greatly, plagued him, swirling about his helm and laughing like poltergeists. He growled lowly, shuttering his optics, intent on driving them away with just his will. But perhaps his will was not as strong as he thought, or maybe it was still trying to regain force after pushing him on for so long while he had been a prisoner, because he could not push the visions away.

With his vision black, they seemed even stronger and he couldn't help the moan that escaped him as he felt phantom servos trailing down his chassis; arching on the berth as his sensory network remembered the sweet torture he had been privilege to. He could almost recall the other's heavy frame above him, intakes brushing against his neck cables as his legs were gently nudged apart, his partner rocking in him in a slow, burning pace.

It was even better when those blue fingers tickled up his spinal struts, wrapping delicately around his wings, intent on bringing him to overload, screaming to the heavens above 'Sou-'

Tracks tore away from his thoughts and demons right then and there, rolling off the berth as he physically tried to run away from his ghouls. Huffing and puffing angrily, the corvette pushed himself off the floor slowly, silently cursing everything from the dust on the corner of his room to the very moisture in the clouds above. Why wouldn't these visions leave him alone?!

It was as if he had just swapped one prison for another; one that his monsters were certain he would not be able to escape from.

The multi-coloured mech let out a scream of rage this time, kicking his berth as his processor brought those dreadful images and sensations to the forefront of his thoughts again. He just wanted to recharge, slaggit! In the one space and plane where nothing mattered and he could not be bothered. Or shouldn't have been bothered...

Tracks glanced over a shoulder tire, to the door of his quarters. For a moment, he contemplated on leaving, but he shook that idea off quickly. There would no rest to be found tonight, not while the rest of the Ark was occupying the medbay and rec room, the crew still dealing with the after-effects of their horrible loss earlier in the day.

The corvette didn't know whether to scoff or sigh.

Shuttering his optics at his berth blankly, Tracks scooted backwards until he was sitting against the wall, helm tipped up to the ceiling as he resigned himself to a night of waiting and thinking.


	6. Chapter 6

Skyfire stepped through the medbay carefully, aware that his size alone presented a problem in a room much too short for him and fitted with all sorts of delicate instruments vital for repairs. Ducking a low-hanging light, the shuttle headed for the ambulance standing at the other side of the room, helm bowed lowly as he sifted through various tools. "Good morning, Ratchet."

Ratchet started a little at the soft-spoken greeting, turning on his pede, facing the other mech. "Good morning Skyfire... I didn't expect to see you so early." Unspoken was the thought that the medic had not expected to see the scientist at all.

As if knowing exactly what the CMO had kept to himself, Skyfire smiled kindly, holding out one of the cubes of energon that he carried. "My hours of recharge vary. I am shameful to say that any sort of new project can keep me enthralled for joors, and I easily lose track of the time," he explained readily. "I thought perhaps you might be awake as well, and took the privilege of collecting us both breakfast."

"I...," Ratchet trailed off hesitantly, before nodding his helm quickly, and taking the cube held out to him. "Thank you," he mumbled, turning back to his tools.

The shuttle did not mind that the smaller Autobot did so. He understood completely that despite having confided in him a portion of his horrific tale, Ratchet was still very wary of Skyfire and tried to limit their interactions as much as possible -out of fear and self-loathing, more than anything else. It was something that caused Skyfire's ever empathic spark to ache and cemented his resolve to be as much of a comfort to the medic as possible during this time of healing. "May I ask what you're doing?," the scientist inquired, shuffling back a few pede-steps and settling gently into a nearby chair. He sipped a little at his cube as Ratchet glanced over at him.

"Just sorting my tools..."

"Oh?"

The medic shuttered his optics slowly, looking to the ground. "Everything's gotten out of place since the last time we did repairs, and despite First Aid' diligence, I fear that some things might have gone missing. They've either been damaged in the chaos or otherwise have been swiped by someone else while my attention was elsewhere," Ratchet elaborated.

That was entirely plausible, Skyfire knew. "And how is First Aid doing? I don't think I saw him at all yesterday," the shuttle remarked, intent on keeping the light conversation going. Anything was better than having the CMO revert back into his isolated silence; he'd have no chance for hope or improvement that way.

Ratchet shrugged, finally turning his attention back to his task. "I ordered him to berth rest. He's been spending too much energy, running about doing all minimal repairs for the crew and other chores for his gestalt. He needed a few proper joors of recharge before he burnt out."

"Yes, he does seem eager to assist," Skyfire smiled.

The medic said nothing. It grew quiet between the two mechs for a short while, but Skyfire did not find it awkward or strained. He finished his cube shortly after the initial conversation had tapered off; Ratchet he noticed, a few kliks later. It was just as the smaller Autobot was beginning to gather his tools to put them away now, that the medbay doors slid open again, granting Smokescreen entrance. The Datsun paused just inside the doorway, caught off-guard by the sight of the other two together.

"Good morning," he started slowly.

"Good morning, Smokescreen," the shuttle replied, checking his chronometer. By now the sun would have risen on this side of the globe, enticing many humans to wake and get ready for a brand new day. "How are you?"

"I am well, Skyfire," Smokescreen said. He crossed the room, glancing intermittently at Ratchet's backstruts. As he got closer though, the medic finally turned around, giving the psychologist some of his attention. "I must say it's surprising to see you here so early. Ratchet I had already anticipated, but your own presence is a pleasant surprise."

Skyfire chuckled lowly for a couple astroseconds, his wings shifting behind him a little. "Yes, I can understand the confusion, but I could not recharge and I thought I might come keep Ratchet company in the meantime. Possibly offer him my help, if he would like it." This was said with a small glance in the medic's direction.

Noticing the look, Ratchet turned his own optics to Skyfire, but did not say anything with Smokescreen there. The Datsun seemed to understand the situation well enough, because his doorwings lowered a tad as the tension left his frame; a warm half-smile tugging at his lip components. "That's very good to hear. Now," Smokescreen continued, turning his helm to Ratchet. "I'm just going to go see Mirage, alright? I've brought him a cube as well."

"He's in the office...," Ratchet supplied.

"Mirage...," the shuttle piped up softly. His tone was rife with sympathy and sorrow for his fellow mech. "He has endured much cruelty. I only hope that his recovery is swift and kind. He deserves all the care we can offer."

The other two Autobots looked at the scientist dazedly. Smokescreen was the first to snap out of it, his optics dimming as his spark was overwhelmed by the same feelings. "I hope so too," he added. "Nobody is deserving of what has been done."

Turning, Smokescreen headed for the office. He paused though at the door, looking back at Ratchet. "Oh, and Ratchet, we'll meet later. Alright?"

The medic stiffened a little, folding his arms over his chassis. "Understood," he quipped in response. The psychologist nodded his helm, turning the door handle and disappearing into the office.

**xxXxXxx**

Tracks uncurled from his troubled recharge, pushing himself up and off the berth wearily. His systems lagged, having not rested well despite having a night to cycle down and do so. He only had his ghouls to blame for that though, and within a moment of weakness, could not find the strength to even protest their cruel mocking as he got up. He spared only a few kliks to make himself look presentable, skipping over the cans of wax that he usually kept aside. The corvette had long lost the care to fix his finish, wiping the dents and scratches out of his once glossy paintjob.

What purpose was there in making himself look beautiful when it only resulted in his suffering?

Shaking his helm to keep the growing shadows at bay, the winged Autobot finished his half-sparked preparations, growling at the voices, before heading out of his berthroom door. There was a change in the atmosphere one could easily tell, a slow growing shift that surprisingly pierced Tracks' spark. He could hear the others moving about the ship now, still subdued in their actions, but the sound was still there and compared to before that was a drastic comparison. The corvette didn't know how to respond to it all; he almost came to a full-stop right then and there when he passed by Bluestreak in the hallways, the talkative gunner offering him a weak greeting. Coming from a mech that the other 'bot had not heard speak in orns, the hello he received was startling.

Tracks hurried to move on, seeing as his own shock produced a similar reaction out of the gunner. It was the same though wherever he went. The others were finally out and about, greeting the multi-coloured mech when he came within their view. There was no looks of pity, no quick interrupting of previous chatter; no helms turning away quickly or mechs callously ignoring his presence. Everyone was being frighteningly... nice, and it riled Tracks up more than their blatant exclusion had done. The stirrings of rage and confusion welled within him, and the corvette hastened to beat them back. He schooled his scowl into an expression of indifference, pulling that same numbness over him like a blanket, until he felt comfortingly sheltered in the absence of his emotions.

He barely reacted at all when he next entered the rec room, finding a good portion of the crew lounging there for breakfast. Some bade him good morning, others just a simple nod of acknowledgement. Most were still understandably uncertain how to act towards Tracks. The winged mech supposed that made him the outcast then.

With a soft snort of disdain, Tracks made his way across the room, getting himself an energon cube. When he turned around, to see if there was an available seat to be found, to his muted disappointment there was no table free. The greater surprise though was when his wandering optics turned to the corner of the room, catching sight of Perceptor... with the twins. Sideswipe leaned against his brother, chin resting on the golden armour, while he stared down at the anxious scientist curled up in Sunstreaker's lap. Every once in a while, a tremor racked through Perceptor's frame. The brightly-painted lamborghini kept his arms loosely wrapped around the microscope, while his twin would move to gently stroke fingers down Perceptor's helm crest.

The slow, innocent touches helped ease whatever horrors troubled the scientist, calming him down again until he leaned back into Sunstreaker's chassis easily.

That... probably should not have been that shocking of a turn around, Tracks tried to tell himself. It had already been obvious that Perceptor was slowly getting better, especially after he had come out of hiding just to fix the two warriors following the Autobot's dreadful loss in the last battle. From there, their interactions were slowly becoming more frequent. Whatever distance had been keeping Sunstreaker and Sideswipe apart from their lover had finally been bridged and now they were working to overcome this ordeal, together.

He should have felt happy for Perceptor.

So why...

Why did he feel almost hateful towards the trio?

Tracks quickly tore his gaze away, glaring down at his cube for a moment before he subspaced the ration. He suddenly did not feel like refueling and wanted only to get out of this packed room with its over-bearing mechs and their kindness.

**xxXxXxx**

"Here, allow me." Ratchet stiffened a little in surprise when large arms rose over his helm, reaching into the cupboard and pulling down the scanner he had been trying to reach. Why he would have placed it so high to begin with when he was too stubborn to use a ladder baffled the medic. But before he could ponder on that oddity any further, Skyfire had pulled the device down from the shelf. Ratchet turned to face him, already expecting the caring smile the other wore as he held out the scanner.

"Where would you like me to put this, Ratchet?," Skyfire asked, glancing quickly around the medbay.

"J-just...," the CMO flustered for a moment, waving his servo vaguely, "Just set it over there by the terminal please. I'll take a look at it later and see if it's up to par still, or if it needs fixing."

The shuttle nodded his helm in understanding, crossing the room quietly for a mech his size, making sure to duck his helm or tuck in his wings when passing by various things. For a moment, Ratchet was unable to tear his optics away from the other Autobot, but he managed it just before Skyfire was turning around to face him again. Needing a distraction, Ratchet started counting the items he still had within the cupboard, deciding that he needed to take inventory anyways. He scowled at the results.

"We're getting low on materials...," he grumbled, pulling out a datapad from subspace and jotting down his findings.

"We have needed them a lot in the past while," Skyfire commented, directly behind the medic. The smaller mech jumped a little, not having expected the shuttle to move up behind him and so silently as well.

Catching the other's surprise, Skyfire quickly circled around Ratchet, making sure he was within the CMO's sight before resting a gentle servo on his shoulder plating. "My apologies," the scientist said, looking oddly contrite. "I had not meant to startle you."

Ratchet gaped for an astrosecond, unable to think past the warmth of that touch. It took all of his strength and a concerned look from Skyfire for the medic to finally tear himself away from the shuttle. Back-pedaling quickly, Ratchet hurried to put distance between the two of them, his helm turned to the floor and his shoulders raised about his helm defensively.

"Ratchet...," the other started, his worry growing at the violent response. "Is everything okay?"

"Leave...," the CMO hissed. "...You should leave Skyfire..."

The cold demand hurt and Skyfire felt his spark ache. "If... if that is what you wish, Ratchet," he replied, "Then I will do so. But, please, if it's something that I have done, won't you tell me first so I can learn from my errors?"

"Why do you have to be so nice?!," Ratchet shouted. His helm snapped up when he realized that he had said that thought out loud, a shaky servo rising to cover his mouth. Skyfire merely shuttered his optics in confusion, not having expected the outburst or what it meant.

"I...," he hesitated, attempting to answer the sudden inquiry, "I suppose it's because I am c-concerned for you. I don't want to leave you alone to fight these monsters Ratchet. Everyone deserves to have someone to help them... even when they've been so strong all on their own until now..."

Coolant collected in the CMO's optics, falling down his cheekplates thickly at the kind words. "I...I'm not strong," he protested, folding into himself a little when the pain started to become too much. "I'm weak! I'm violent, hideous, I-i-i-i..." His vocalizer broke off into a burst of static, leaving the rest of his self-deprecating words unspoken.

Skyfire wanted to rush forwards to offer comfort to Ratchet, to deny everything negative that he believed of himself. But would that be the right move? He hesitated, torn between wanting to hold the mech and the knowledge that the medic may not want his touch at this moment. Through his tears, Ratchet could see that the shuttle stayed back, respecting his need for space even now. The revelation caused him to cry harder, crumpling to the floor entirely. This time, Skyfire did not stay back.

He approached Ratchet slowly, lowering himself to his knees; servos hovering over the medic's shoulder plating anxiously. "Ratchet... please...," he said softly, his own vocalizer pitching slightly.

The CMO's servos reached forward, clutching at Skyfire's cockpit desperately. The harsh grip made the shuttle wince, more so from surprise then actual pain. "Ratchet, I... I just want to help..."

"I know...," came the spark-broken keen. "I know! Th-that's why I need y-you to leave...p-please! B-before I fall a-anymore in love w-with you..."

Ratchet broke off for a moment, more static streaming out of his mouth. His helm lifted sadly, his grip tightening on Skyfire's cockpit. "I-i-i... I know it's wrong," he sobbed, "I-it's not real; n-none of this is! I-it's just a s-simple hero sy-syndrome case, m-making my c-circuits think t-that I love you... b-but I-i c-can't... can't st-stop it... Yo-you're so nice... s-so nice to me..."

"Ratchet..." The soft voice came again, gentle and caring, just like it always was. It washed over the ambulance, stirring up his spark until he was almost overwhelmed by the misplaced feelings he had growing for the bigger mech. Shuttering his optics against his tears, Ratchet missed the warm smile that tugged at Skyfire's lip components; as the shuttle finally wrapped his arms around his shaking frame, resting his cheekplate against the other's helm.

"If that is the only reason that you wish me gone," Skyfire continued, "Then forgive me when I say that I can not simply go. Maybe you are just beginning to feel something for me because I am simply available, but I have always cared for you Ratchet. Before any of this ever happened. Nothing changes that."

And it was true. The scientist had always admired the medic from afar since joining the Autobots, but had just brushed aside his small affections, having assumed that Ratchet would not want him. It was better to love and care for someone from afar, then push your own feelings into their path and become a hindrance to them, the shuttle believed. He had never expected the smaller mech to say such words to him and though he knew it was partially wrong himself, Skyfire couldn't help the warm pulsing it drew from his spark.

The red servos clutched him harder, and Skyfire tightened his own hold on the CMO. "I will always be here for you, Ratchet," he added, following his confession, "Whether you choose to except a humble 'bot's feelings or not. That is the depth of my love."

Only the spark-jerking cry of a mech who'd finally found his small redemption was his reply.

**xxXxXxx**

He should have known it was just a matter of time before Smokescreen came and cornered him again. Tracks growled as he was literally walked back into a corner, right in the junction of a barely used hallway; losing any chance of escape or excuses to avoid the psychologist's interference. Smokescreen himself held his doorwings loftily, the panels tense and immobile, as serious as the expression he wore.

"Tracks, I believe it's about time we talked again," the Datsun started.

"How about 'no'," the corvette responded.

The winged Autobot tried to step to the side, possibly duck past the smaller mech, but Smokescreen quickly copied his motion, cutting off his retreat. "Let me rephrase that then," he said, doorwings inching higher, "It's about time that we talked. As a soldier of the Autobot faction, and under medical note, you are ordered to heed your superior's command and take active part in your counselling session. These are for your benefit only, not mine."

Tracks sneered at the hypocritical words, resting his servos on his hips. "Really now? My benefit? I believe the only one I've seen benefiting from your silly charade of shrink is yourself and all the rest of the idiots who didn't have to go through rape after violent rape."

Smokescreen's optics flashed, but this time he did not back down. "If that is really how you feel, then I am sorry. But the truth of the matter is that I am helping everyone. The world just doesn't revolve around you Tracks," he ground out, "And if you can't see that through your selfishness, then obviously you are in need of a lot more help than I had anticipated."

The urge to hit the Datsun was almost over-powering. The corvette hissed, speaking venomous words to the shadows laughing at his back struts silently, before returning his whole attention to the provocateur standing in front of him. Even with his optics turned away from them, those miserable ghouls picked and prodded at his plating, cackling in his audios softly.

"How dare you?!," Tracks replied lowly, the air rushing through his intakes in a long, hateful burst. "I have never thought that I was the only one. Who do you think had to watch, while I waited 'my turn', as the others were taken and brought back, time and time again?! Who else had been there when I had been forced to watch as two of my comrades were raped, brutally, before my very optics, trapped behind bars and unable to do anything to stop it?! I am more than aware of the other three that endured this with me AND I WILL NOT HAVE YOU INSULT ME WITH YOUR STUPID LIES OF VANITY!"

Slowly, the smaller mech shuttered his optics, seemingly unfazed by the other's screaming at the end there. "Finally," Smokescreen quipped dryly, "Some progress."

The winged Autobot spat in contempt, shoving the psychologist out of his way and storming down the hall. If he stayed any longer in this place with the infuriating Datsun, he'd kill him. He did not doubt that for an astrosecond. "Tracks!," Smokescreen called after him, grunting as he picked himself up off the floor. "Tracks, stop running away slaggit!"

"I am not running!," was the impatient response.

"Yes, you are!," the psychologist snapped, feeling his own patience wane. "All this time you've been running around, refusing to face your problems head on. Tracks, how long will you persist on using your anger as a shield before you realize you are only imprisoning yourself further in those horrid moments!? How much more poison will you feed yourself until you realize that this is no way to spend the rest of your life?!"

He'd had enough! Metal clanged and screeched as Tracks turned on his heel, lunging for the Datsun. Caught off-guard by the assault, Smokescreen grunted as the full weight of the corvette slammed into his abdomen; the two of them crashing to the floor. Optics flaring brightly in panic, Smokescreen wrestled with the other mech, trying to keep those clawed servos from scratching out either his optics or his vocalizer. For a moment, their gazes connected, and a chill ran through the psychologist's circuits as he saw only roiling madness reflected in the blue glass staring down at him.

"G-get, get off me!," he yelled, trying to shift the angle, to give himself the advantage. "Tracks, I swear I'll-"

"Tracks! Tracks!," a voice screamed down the hallway. Pounding pedes followed the desperate cries, forcing the two mechs apart, just as Perceptor ran around the corner. The microscope came to an abrupt stop, fans whirring loudly as they attempted to cool down his heated frame; not even once taking notice of the awkward situation he found Smokescreen and Tracks in. And they did not even bother offering any explanations or lies, fixated solely on the tears cascading down Perceptor's cheekplates and the wide, frightened expression twisting his face.

"T-tracks...," he sobbed. "I-it's Mirage. H-he... He's gone!"

Above their helms, the alarm started blaring.


	7. Chapter 7

It was like everything had gone several miles back, after they had taken just several steps forward.

Skyfire watched from beside the medbay doors, unable to move, because he knew Ratchet would need his support and yet the medic would never accept it. Smokescreen had already been there a few kliks earlier, but had left, mumbling to himself over and over again "He was getting better... I had thought..." with tears falling down his face unhindered. The psychologist he supposed might have gone to the control deck to talk to the others, or perhaps had found himself a secret place to hide away as his guilt ate away at him. The shuttle couldn't tell.

Out in the hallways, the Twins waited, still wary of Ratchet's wrath and uncomfortable trespassing into the room now without express permission first. Skyfire understood them there. Already, he was shifting uneasily in place, drowning in his grief, but it was hardly anything compared to the ones standing only metres away from him. Ratchet cried silently at the machines, his optics flickering in and out as he attempted to focus on the readouts but unable to suppress the tears. Perceptor was weeping loudly again, sobbing and keening in unrestrained despair as he curled over Mirage's still frame on the medical berth. It didn't seem likely that the microscope would be stopping anytime soon.

At the foot of the berth, well away of the others, was Tracks. Though any other would turn on the corvette, calling him sparkless for not crying or staying close to his comrades, Skyfire would have put them in their place right then and there. Perhaps, Tracks was not showing any outward sign of sorrow, the same as Ratchet and Perceptor were, but there was no doubting the shocked expression he wore or the way his lower lip component trembled every once in a while. His sadness was a well so deep that even he could not find the ways to express himself, sinking only deeper into that dank, cold sea.

And the shuttle did not fault him on that either.

Only several cycles earlier, Ratchet had noticed that Mirage was not holed up in his office anymore.

Smokescreen did not have an appointment with him at the time, and had at that moment been trying to corner Tracks into talking.

Everyone was aware of how terrified the spy became if he so much as took a step out of the medbay; he slipped into a sort of nightmarish trance if he was near anyone aside from the select few. It was hard then for them to believe that he had simply vanished from the room of his own accord.

Immediately, a search party had been thrown together, Red Alert sounding the alarm so everyone would know the situation. It had taken so long for them to find Mirage... and already, everyone had been expecting the worse...

Especially Tracks.

His tanks pitched and roiled and he thought he was going to purge right there. He held it back though with a shaky intake, keeping the nausea at bay by simple will... and even that was escaping him quickly. He had been the first to find Mirage, having been the only one to think to look in the ex-Noble's room. Out of all the places Mirage could probably hide in the Ark, for some reason, the corvette knew it would be his quarters that he'd run to when he didn't want anyone to find him. Because, who would look in the most obvious place?

He had not anticipated the sight that met him once he had punched in the race car's door key.

There... there had been so much energon. It was spilled across the floor, splashed along the walls. It soaked the items that had been thrown about; bright, fluorescent pink in the darkness, highlighting the shards of glass and plastic from possessions once treasured but now destroyed. It was as if Mirage had intentionally tried to tear himself apart, but when that proved impossible, the spy had opted for a simpler solution.

With the broken pieces of a photograph frame, he had shoved the shards deep into his chestplates. Through the casing of his visible spark, and piercing the fragile orb of light that was their entire essence.

It was amazing that Mirage's spark hadn't simply puttered out from the heavy abuse it had been subject too.

Now though, they stood -the three of them- around the race car's berth, incapable of doing anything but watch as Mirage's spark withered and pulsed weakly; uncertain if he would ever recover this time or if his wish to have it all end would finally be granted. And Tracks felt like he was going to be sick at any moment.

"Why...," Ratchet growled lowly. He glanced away from the monitors showing the spy's dismal stats, optics tearing up again as he looked at the unresponsive mech. "Why? Why would he do that?!," the medic shouted. "Why, you stupid, stupid, stupid mech... w-what... wh-what c-could have ma-made you do s-something like this...?"

The ambulance turned away, servos cupping his face as he cried again into his palms. No one else responded to his pain, so wrapped up within their own that they could not yet tear away from it, let alone acknowledge the rest of the world. But Tracks, he heard, and callously he stayed silent. If there was anything that could be viewed as almost helpful out of this entire situation, it was the fact that four mechs, who once never knew nor cared much for each other, had grown a bond that none could sever through their suffering. It was only because of this bond that the corvette dared to think he might know the very reasons why Mirage would have chosen to end his own life, yet could not muster the courage to speak it.

Even on the verge of death, didn't they all deserve the right to hold some fraction of their secrets?

"This is all their fault...," he hissed lowly. Optics turned to him warily, having caught the venom that he had spoken with. Tracks didn't bother to spare them any of his attention, his gaze focused only on Mirage in his unresponsive stasis. "All of them -they're to blame for this!"

Ratchet lowered his servos, clenching them at his sides. "Tracks," he started, taking a step towards the corvette.

"No!," the corvette screamed, moving backwards, increasing the distance between them. "Don't you dare tell me that it's not! None of this would have happened if they weren't involved. Frag the Decepticons -those glitches have always been twisted, demented fraggers! If it wasn't for all of those mechs out there, calling themselves our friends, then Mirage would not have tried to take his life. It's because of them that he did this!"

"Tracks, you need to calm down this very instant!," Ratchet yelled back. Perceptor whimpered behind them, clutching onto Mirage harder as he looked fearfully up at them both. "What do you think will happen if you just blame them, huh? Isn't it already enough that Smokescreen holds himself responsible for Mirage's attempted suicide! Do you want the others to fragging suffer as well for something that they had no part in to begin with!?"

"Why the frag not!," Tracks retorted, wings hitching high in his fury. "Maybe they didn't rape us, but they sure as slag played a part in everything that's happened afterwards!"

"And what about the part that you've played?!"

A cold, tense silence descended in the medbay, interrupted only by the machines as they beeped and ticked away; Tracks and Ratchet glaring at each other in a rigid stand-off. "What," the multi-coloured mech hissed lowly, "Did you say?"

Ratchet bared his denta in return, optics flaring as his anger grew another notch. "You heard me," he snapped. "You go on and on about the others not accepting us or making us the outcasts, and yet you never try to change things. You're happier wallowing in your anger and grief and would tear anyone down who might want to change that for us. What, are we supposed to be as bitter and misguided as you are as well?!"

Tracks looked as if he had been slapped in the face.

"...p-please...," Perceptor whispered from behind them, "...pl-please... d-don't fight..."

The medic cycled a heavy intake, turning his helm to the side. It took all his effort to reign in his anger and not continue yelling at the corvette. Tracks though seemed to have had enough. His wings lowered, his face going slack as all emotion was wiped clean from it. Without another word, he twisted on his pede, marching for the door silently. "Tracks," Ratchet sighed after him, "Tracks, you... y-you don't have to go."

Tracks did not pause until he was already at the door. Skyfire looked at him uncertainly, wanting to help the corvette but not knowing how to do so. He had not expected to see these any of these four fight each other and that left him feeling as if he was invading on a private matter just by merely being in the same room with them. Torn, the shuttle watched quietly as Tracks inclined his helm just the slightest in the other three mechs' direction, his words a whisper so soft it could almost be mistaken for a weak sigh.

"I can see when I'm not wanted," was all he said, as the doors opened and he was disappearing through them; Sideswipe and Sunstreaker glancing at Tracks and the others, puzzled, before the doors slid shut again.

**xxXxXxx**

The shadows curled and twisted about him, cackling as they usually did.

"Leave me alone," Tracks hissed, wrapping his arms tighter around himself. He tucked his chin against his folded knees, pressing his face into his arms. He glared at the floor between his pedes, processor running a mile a minute as he sifted through all the events that had transpired.

When had life taken such a hideous turn?

Who, in all of this mad, incomprehensible universe, had decided that four poor mechs were deserving of such misfortune? What made Ratchet, or Mirage, or Perceptor any less of a person than anyone else?

For a moment, the corvette thought he might weep. But like always, the feeling passed and he was left with an even greater hole as his emotions refused to have anything to do with him. He had only the company of his ghouls and their ill-spoken words.

"I said shut up!," he shouted this time, as the aforementioned creatures again poked fun at him. "What do you expect me to do?! I can't take down a whole fragging army by myself!"

The darkness swelled around him, closing in tightly, suffocating Tracks. He growled, thrashing against them viciously. "I am not weak," the winged mech denied, hissing back at them when they proclaimed otherwise. Tracks was tempted to snap at them again, but strangely, he grew quiet, a contemplative expression dawning on his face.

"Perhaps...," he mumbled vaguely.

The ghouls twisted and snaked around his frame, making clicking noises in confusion. They waited to see what thoughts plagued the corvette, eager for the chance to continue their mocking. Tracks paid them little attention, a grim smile coming to his face. "Maybe there is a way," he breathed, almost gleefully. "A way to make things alright."

He got to his pedes, grabbing his can of wax and a rag. If he wanted any hope of achieving his growing plans, then he would need to look his best. "You'll see; it'll work," he smiled wickedly at the ghouls reflected in his mirror. "If you want to destroy a demon, sometimes you need to make a bargain with a greater one."

**xxXxXxx**

"Ratchet...," First Aid said, gentle servos touching the CMO's forearm hesitantly. "Ratchet, please, let me take care of Mirage for a little while. I promise, he will be fine with me for just a cycle."

Skyfire stood on the opposite side of the pair, his own servos tucked before him anxiously. He wanted to touch the older medic as well, but with how things had been the last couple days, he knew that would be wrong of him. He barely had the courage to tear Ratchet away from his post, because he understood that the other Autobot could not bear to be away from Mirage. In his spark, the ambulance blamed himself as well, convinced that he should have noticed sooner that the race car was only getting worse; that he was no longer in the medbay office as he usually was. All the same though, Ratchet had been online for 45 cycles already, not giving himself a chance to recharge or refuel. If he did not take a small break, to at least get some energon into him, he would burn out soon.

"Please Ratchet, allow First Aid to take over for a little while. You and I can grab a cube quickly and be back before too long," the shuttle added, hopeful that the CMO would acquiesce to their concerned request.

It was only with his words that Ratchet finally responded; his shoulders fell heavily, his helm turning slowly to look first at First Aid, then Skyfire. When those dim, blue optics met his own, Skyfire was certain to smile kindly at the ambulance, holding out a servo in invitation. "I promise nothing bad will happen to Mirage while we are gone."

Shuttering his optics, the medic finally relented, turning around and letting the scientist lead him to the medbay doors. First Aid nodded his thanks to the bigger mech, before quickly taking up post beside the spy's machines, checking that everything was stable and working properly. Not wanting Ratchet to suddenly change his mind, Skyfire, gently but quickly, directed them out into the main hallway. No words were spoken between them as they headed for the rec room, and that was fine with the scientist, who did not wish to push something when the medic obviously was still not ready. He was just happy that Ratchet trusted him and First Aid enough to leave the medbay.

A dulled chatter filled the rec room when they entered; 'bots turning their helms as Ratchet and Skyfire entered. They wore expressions of sadness and sympathy, the entire crew subdued once more after Mirage had been found following his short disappearance. Only a few could offer half-sparked smiles of greeting to the pair as the scientist pulled out a chair for Ratchet to take at a free table. "You just sit here, okay Ratchet," Skyfire said softly to the medic. "I'll get you some energon."

He waited until he got a nod in reply, before crossing the room and heading for the energon dispenser. Skyfire was feeling mildly better as he grabbed a cube for himself and Ratchet, filling them up to the brim, returning to the CMO's side shortly after. "The energon tastes very nice today," the shuttle commented, taking a sip from his cube as he sat down beside the smaller mech.

"Thank you," Ratchet mumbled, taking the offered drink. He said nothing else, sipping from the cube deeply. It warmed his tired frame, having that neon liquid running through his pipes, exciting his circuit grid until it felt like he was more alive again. It was energy he would need when he went back to the medbay. "Listen, I...," the medic trailed off for a moment, "Just, thank you. Really."

Skyfire smiled. "I know, Ratchet. You don't need to say anything."

"Yes, well...," Ratchet started again. His vocalizer clicked off though as he looked past the flyer's wing, optics flaring brightly in shock. "W-wheeljack..."

Slowly, Skyfire turned his own helm, looking at the engineer that had just walked into the rec room. He looked well for someone he had not seen in a while, and that confused the scientist but not anymore than the medic practically leaping to his pedes and hurrying to catch up to the lancier. Ratchet was right behind Wheeljack, blocking the other's path out of the room, before he made his presence known. "Wh-wheeljack?," he choked out, his words echoing out in the now silent room. "Y-you're... alright?"

The engineer stiffened, surprised by the confrontation, reluctantly facing the ambulance. "Ratchet...," he replied. "I didn't expect to see you here."

The CMO shuttered his optics for an astrosecond, before the disbelief and concern was wiped clear from his face, a rising anger reflecting in his optics. "Where...," he began lowly, fists clenching at his sides. "Where have you been all this time?! Three months, THREE MONTHS, I've waited for you to not be 'busy' any longer, so you could be bothered to make those inhibitors like I asked. I've worried, and waited and paced my office all orn long and yet you never could see the point in sending me a comm! Where were you when we needed your help, huh?! When the rest of your comrades were bleeding and torn apart, and we were in dire need of extra servos? What, were you hiding in your miserable little hole you call a lab?!"

"Ratchet, stop your yelling," Wheeljack coldly said, only glancing slightly at the others. "Before you make a fool of yourself."

"M-me? Make a fool of myself?," Ratchet gaped incredulously.

Skyfire rose to his pedes, anxiously coming up behind the medic. "Ratchet, perhaps-"

"No!," the medic snapped, cutting off the shuttle. "No... no, let's hear exactly what Wheeljack has to say about me making a fool of myself. I'm very interested to know how I'm doing so."

The engineer tensed, optics flashing in ire. "You're doing it right now. Acting the way you are... What is wrong with you Ratchet? Why do you have to act this way?!" Wheeljack turned his helm away a little, almost as if to spit to the side. "You've changed too much..."

It felt like someone had just punched him. Mechs shuffled uneasily in their seats, wanting to leave but unable to gather up the courage to skitter for the door. And all the while, their CMO stood in the middle of the room; stuck in a stupor that he seemed unlikely to break out of. Rage -deep, dark and overwhelming- sprang from the depths of his being, filling Ratchet's hard-lines like frigid ice, freezing everything within him as it spread its claws. "W-what... what is wrong with me?"

Ratchet stepped forward, lip components twisting into a snarl. "What is wrong with me?!," he roared, unleashing all of his fury. "How about the fact that I was RAPED you fragging glitch! Not once, not twice but on MULTIPLE FRAGGING OCCASSIONS! And not just by one mech, either -oh no!- but by several fraggers, sometimes all at once as well! Oh, and let's not forget, I was starved, beaten, demeaned and degraded until the point that I barely even felt like a person anymore let alone myself. And you -you have the audacity to ask what's wrong with me?!"

Wheeljack merely shook his helm, trying to step around the medic. It was the wrong move. Ratchet bellowed like an enraged beast at the physical rejection, rushing forwards and tackling the engineer to the floor. The rec room burst into a cacophony of noise at the unexpected assault, mechs jumping to their pedes and shouting for the two Autobots to stop fighting. Ratchet and Wheeljack though paid them no attention. The ambulance was punching and kicking wildly, fingers clawed, ready to gouge out the lancier's optics. The engineer beneath him bucked and cursed loudly, yelling for the "screw-loose, fragging glitch" to get off of him that very instant, servos holding onto the medic's arms to try and keep those sharp digits from scratching his chassis any further.

Around them, waiting for the moment when he could reach in between their scuffling and pull the two apart, was Skyfire, looking on anxiously.

"Look at you! Look at yourself!," Wheeljack screamed. "You've become some kind of hateful monster! How can anyone be expected to stand more than a few kliks in the same room with you?"

"Y-you...," Ratchet growled, grunting as he struggled against Wheeljack's hold. "How dare you?! How can you do this to me?"

"Just what the slag is going on here!," screamed another voice over the din. "Skyfire, pull those two apart now!"

"I-i, I'm trying to Smokescreen. I just-"

"Don't worry about scuffing him, just grab him already!"

The medic screeched and writhed as two large servos wrapped under his arms, physically lifting him up and away from the engineer. He screamed to be put down, to be released, still spitting curses and howls at Wheeljack slowly sitting up off the floor. "Ratchet, please," Skyfire's gentle tone was speaking into his audio as he was pressed backwards into the shuttle's chassis. "Please, calm down... before you hurt yourself."

Ratchet's engine turned over sharply, his intakes coming in ragged, broken bursts as he wound down; struggling only weakly in Skyfire's grasp. His optics were still fixed on the other mech across from him, coolant pooling along the glass and slipping down his cheekplates thickly. "H-how...," he croaked, glaring at Wheeljack. "H-how can you t-treat me like this, af-after s-so long... w-when I-i-i-i...I w-would do n-nothing to h-hurt you."

His gaze lowered to the floor as sobs escaped his throat. "D-do you think I wanted th-this to ha-happen to m-me?!," he shouted, grasping the arms around his middle tightly for support. "I-i-i... I c-cared for yo-you so much, b-but now... Tracks was right; you're all the same. M-maybe you didn't do a-any of the st-stuff the Dec-decepticons did b-but none of you h-helped either."

"Ratchet...," Skyfire mumbled sadly, his optics wet with his own rising tears.

The medic did not respond to the scientist though, growing cold all over. His spark, it felt like it was no longer even there. "I hate you," he whispered, "All of you."

"Skyfire," Smokescreen interjected, not taking his optics off of the mech's downcast helm. "Take Ratchet back to medbay please. I'll be along shortly."

The shuttle looked up at the psychologist uncertainly, but nodded his helm, shifting his grip and guiding Ratchet to the door. He spared one last disapproving look over his wing at Wheeljack before the both of them had gone, leaving the rest of the Autobots in their shame and sorrow.


	8. Chapter 8

"Percy... y-you, you sure you want to go down this way?" Sideswipe looked down the hallway anxiously, glancing from the too-bright orange walls and back to his partner. Perceptor had his optics fixed ahead though, servos clasped before him in grim determination.

"I'm sure," he answered surely. Soft, but nonetheless filled with resolve. "It is the fastest route, after all."

The lamborghini couldn't deny that this way was quickest when one wanted to get to the medbay, but even he could still see the scuff marks on the floor and wall; traces of energon, almost burgundy now after all this time, speckled along the corridor from where others had missed them during clean-up. Just the faintest sight of them was enough to make even the burly warrior feel sick to his tanks. How then could he expect Perceptor to be able to brave this path?

It wasn't for Sideswipe to decide in either case. The microscope cycled a deep intake, hesitating only a moment, before stepping past the imaginary division line separating him from the corridor. A shiver running down his spinal struts, the red Twin followed after him. Their pede-falls echoed tinnily as they went; the end seemingly miles away from them. Subconsciously, Sideswipe moved to stand on Perceptor's left as they neared Mirage's room; protecting him, if that were at all possible anymore. What neither had expected though, was for the spy's door to be cracked open just the slightest.

"Perceptor...," the lamborghini started, "Maybe, we should-"

The scientist moved around the other Autobot, slowly approaching the door. He said nothing, even as he set a shaking servo on the metal; pushing the door open more. It creaked and groaned like a wounded beast as it was forced back along its track, almost drowning out the surprised scuffle that echoed from within the dark room.

Sideswipe stepped up behind Perceptor quickly, a servo slipping to his blaster in subspace. "Percy, be careful. There's someone in there..."

"I know," the smaller mech replied fearlessly. Perceptor didn't look back at Sideswipe, only becoming more tense as he shoved the door open a little wider. When the lamborghini moved to follow him, the microscope turned, setting a black servo on the red hood. His expression was quiet, withdrawn, blue optics pleading silently at the other Autobot. Reluctantly, Sideswipe acquiesced to the demand, stepping back.

He watched as Perceptor disappeared into the room, leaving him behind.

Inside, it was dark. No lights flickered on at his presence, and the scientist wasn't entirely sure if that was a good or a bad thing. He didn't like the heaviness of the blackness all around him, but he doubted he'd be able to handle whatever horrors were kept veiled by the lack of light. Already, Perceptor could feel coolant pooling about his optics again, and his intakes heaved. Something stirred in the darkness once more, somewhere ahead of the small mech. Focusing on the sound, he headed toward it, adjusting his optical input, trying to increase visibility.

The grainy pixels guided him around shattered bits of furniture and other objects, straight to the berth at the back of the room, where heavy pedes caught his sight. Slowly, anxiously, Perceptor lifted his helm.

"Hello... Perceptor," Hound greeted dully, his vocalizer strained. The tracker lifted his helm slightly, gazing back at the scientist with a distracted gaze. It was obvious in his hunched shoulders and glossy cheekplates, that he had been crying.

It took all of the smaller 'bot's resolve not to crumple in sympathy.

"Why are you here?," he demanded coldly.

Hound flinched a little at the harsh inquiry, servos tightening around the item clenched between his fingers. The microscope glanced at it, his optics taking a moment before he recognized it as a holoframe. One that would usually display an image, but currently its face was dark, the screen cracked. Whatever precious moments it had once held were now lost... almost like their owner had been.

"Listen, P-perceptor, I-"

"I asked you a question," Perceptor cut in quickly, returning his gaze to the tracker's face. "Please, do not give me excuses." Pain reflected in the dim orbs, Hound biting his lip component hard.

"I-i...," he choked, "I couldn't go to the medbay. I j-just... I couldn't..." He dropped his helm again, unable to say anything more. There was so much he wanted to speak though, but the words caught in his vocalizer, twisting and twisting until it felt like he was swallowing a handful of nails. He barely even noticed when the microscope stepped forward a couple more paces, servos hanging loosely by his sides as he stood before the bulkier mech.

"I mean, w-why...," Hound managed to stutter out, "W-why would he do th-that...? D-didn't they say th-that he w-was getting better-"

"I know."

The jeep's helm snapped up, almost hopefully, but only distant, disappointed optics looked back at him. Again, he flinched, as Perceptor's lip components parted. "I know," the red mech elaborated, "I heard. And I'm sure... Mirage did too. Somehow."

"How could you, of all mechs, say those things?," Perceptor swallowed sharply, trying to remain focused through the tears beginning to glaze his optics. "I-i-i understand t-that... that it's b-been hard, f-for everyone t-to adjust. B-but to sit there... a-and agree with Wheeljack, w-when he was saying a-all those nasty things? D-did you not know t-that you were t-the only one M-mirage considered a friend? H-how could you b-betray him, wh-when he needed your h-help the most?"

The scientist turned his helm away, frame shaking as he tried to swallow back his sobs. His spark ached -in anger, disgust, sorrow, pity- spurred further by the tears he could hear falling down Hound's own cheekplates again. The tracker curled into himself as best as he could, intakes heaving as he cried. "I-i'm sorry!," he sobbed brokenly. "I-i-i really am... I d-didn't mean to- I n-never had wa-wanted-!"

The green mech broke off again, mumbling incoherent things softly as he cried harder, pleas and apologies being whispered to the dark room. "I d-didn't kn-know what to say -I-i-i-i never... he c-came to me, a-and I panicked! I di-didn't know what e-else to d-do. I j-just never th-thought..."

The microscope had heard enough. He turned his attention back to Hound, reaching out and slapping the hysterical jeep. His palm stung and his chassis trembled at the violence he had just displayed, but his tears and the hurricane of emotions he felt racing across his circuits would not give him even a moment to feel ashamed of himself. "Y-you...," he grit out, "Y-you jerk!"

Hound shuttered his optics up at Perceptor, a servo rising to his dented cheekplate in disbelief.

"I... I try to be as sympathetic as possible," Perceptor cried, unable to stop the well of pain, "Despite everything... e-everything I have gone through. But I w-would never have been able to make it this far, i-if I didn't have them. The ones that have showed m-me, time and again, that th-they really do care for me. That I matter, that being happy, feeling safe, are important and o-okay things to want. H-hound... y-you're a really good p-person, but..."

"But you've done a stupid thing...," the scientist continued softly, feeling his energy escape him. He could remember it so clearly, seeing Hound in the hallways with Wheeljack a month ago, the engineer saying such... such mean things, and the tracker willingly nodding along in agreement. It had been a terrible secret to hold inside of him, but the knowledge that his most trusted friend and supposed love interest hated them because of what happened, would have torn Ratchet apart. As it had done just the other day...

It was almost hard to believe, that someone who was usually so good and kind, could allow himself to be motivated by another's poisonous words. And yet... wasn't that their life now?

Sighing, Perceptor turned his gaze away from Hound, unable to look the tracker fully in the optic anymore. All he could see was pain and sorrow reflected back at him, and a small, angry part of himself did not want to grant the bigger mech any sympathy. It hissed that Hound was undeserving of it.

"Y-you... you need to correct yourself, Hound, and everything that you've done. I can only hope that when Mirage wakes up... you, and him, might be able to forgive yourself for the transgressions you have done to him." The scientist did not add the other things buzzing in his helm; like, that Hound did not deserve forgiveness, and that he still spent his nights, worrying that he'd wake to find that Mirage had finally passed on.

Those were words that did not need to be spoken, and fears better left forgotten.

Slowly, Perceptor turned away from the jeep, heading back through the darkness and rugged room, to the strip of light, leading out into the hallway like a beam of salvation. He was blinded immediately once he stepped out of the room, hearing something heavy shuffle towards him uncertainly. When he flinched, it stopped.

"P-percy...," Sideswipe called, "Percy, a-are... are you okay?"

Pixels re-orientating themselves, the microscope twisted slightly to face the lamborghini, feeling a weight begin to lift from his shoulder plating. It left him feeling drained though, as if he'd been online for cycles already, without recharge or fuel. "I... I'm fine," he answered wearily, as Sideswipe slowly closed the distance between them.

"You sure?," the red warrior asked in concern, lifting a servo and gently stroking it down Perceptor's helm.

"Y-yes... I..." Perceptor trailed off, glancing back to Mirage's door and the darkness. He couldn't hear Hound anymore, but he doubted the tracker had moved from his spot yet. Sideswipe followed his gaze, petting the scientist's helm again.

"Who was in there?"

The lamborghini made to move to the door, but the microscope grabbed his servo, drawing him back to his side. "It doesn't matter. Please," he said, tightening his grip. Sideswipe hesitated, torn between finding out who was in the room and comforting Perceptor. Eventually though, he did choose the smaller mech, squeezing the trembling servo back.

"Let's go get you some energon... alright?," the warrior suggested softly, leaning forward and gently kissing the scientist's helm.

"T-that, that would be nice," Perceptor agreed, sighing softly at the tender comfort given to him. Even the smallest of kindnesses was enough to soothe his jumbled circuits and painful thoughts. Relaxing at his companion's own calming state, Sideswipe gently began leading them forward again; a tiny smile on his lip components, and fingers still entwined in strength and support.

**xxXxXxx**

The forest groaned and creaked as he walked through the trees, pushing them out of his path; wary of the leaves and pines raining down. He was glad when he came to the designated clearing, grinning wickedly as his optics landed on the other already waiting for him. With a courage he didn't entirely feel, he sashayed forwards, drawing the mech's attention.

"I'm so glad that you could make it."

"Inquiry: Why did you comm me?" Soundwave circled the clearing slowly, keeping opposite of the other, visor flashing when he attempted to move closer. Eventually, he stopped trying to back the Decepticon into a tree, leaning against the steadiest oak near him.

"I thought you might of wanted to see me," he cooed.

The tapedeck tensed, servo slowly reaching for his blaster in subspace. "Demand: Give reason for contacting. _Now_ , Tracks."

The aforementioned Autobot began to giggle deliriously, leaning forward slightly. "No need for the guns, love. I don't have any on myself, and we're far enough away from any Autobot outpost. You'd have plenty of time to shoot me if that's what you so wished and still escape." Tracks twisted a servo in the air loosely, resting against the tree's bark again calmly, that insane smile still on his face. "Besides, I only called to talk to you..."

Soundwave kept his servo resting on his hip plating, ready for the moment when the corvette turned out to be a liar, but he heard nothing from the surrounding forest except the meaningless white noise of the organic creatures throughout the trees and grass; overshadowing the quiet, incoherent mess that was Tracks' own helm. "Status: confused. Inquiry: subject of confrontation?"

"I have a proposition for you, Soundwave," Tracks answered, growing solemn. "You're Third in Command, are you not? Meaning, on top of being communications officer, you know all the ins and out of Megatron's forces. Their strengths, their weakness... Where they're gonna break _and hard_."

The Decepticon tensed further. Scoffing slightly at the response, the multi-coloured mech pushed himself off of the oak, starting up his predatory circling again. The tapedeck copied his every action, waiting for the other to make his move. The corvette smirked, his indigo optics dimming in dark amusement.

"Yes. You could destroy that army within a matter of kliks, couldn't you? But never Megatron. No... I doubt you would ever lay a servo on that sick fragger. You're too... loyal to him, after all."

"Maybe though," Tracks continued, servos winding about nonsensically again. Soundwave watched their twisting, weaving motions warily; the both of them still pacing around the clearing slowly. "Maybe, I could convince you, hmmm? To break every... single... one... of... those... mechs. Tear them down until it hurts, and keep ripping until they have no sensation left."

The communications officer stopped his circling, visor flashing as he stared at the corvette in surprise. Tracks slowed to a stop as well, his wings flared and twitching slightly with every passing breeze. "What?," he asked in mock innocent. "Did you think I was so incapable of hatred? That I couldn't even muster the rage up for all of your comrades after they so thoughtfully _raped_ me?!"

The forest erupted into a squabble of noise as birds and mammals skittered away in distress; the corvette pulling his fist out of a tree's trunk slowly. The abused wood groaned sickly before it cracked with a boom of thunder, crashing to the ground behind him. Silently, the winged Autobot picked the shards of wood out of his servo, glancing at Soundwave coldly. In a calmer tone, he said, "No, I think I have put up with enough. Things have gone far enough... it's time for vengeance to be exacted. And you _are_ going to help me."

"Fact: are out of your helm. Will not assist you," the Decepticon was quick to spit back.

A coy smile graced Tracks' lip components; slowly, he sashayed for the tapedeck, managing to get close enough to slide his servos down the other's chestplates. Breaking out of his stupor, Soundwave quickly reached for his weapon; cocking it, and holding the end to the Autobot's helm. Tracks merely shuttered his optics at the press of the cool metal, that misplaced smile still on his face.

"Oh, insane I may be... but, you will still help me Soundwave. I have something to offer you in exchange for your assistance," the corvette whispered temptingly against the communications officer's mouth guard. "Something I'm certain you can not refuse, and desire more than anything else."

Silence met his statement, Soundwave for once in his function stunned into immobility. Smile growing on his face, Tracks sunk to his knees slowly, fingers splaying out across white thighs. "Do this," he grinned seductively, mouth brushing the other's pelvic plating, "And I shall be yours. For whatever purpose you choose. Utterly... and eternally..."

Light flashed across that blood-red visor, a servo falling to curl around the back of his helm. Cycling an intake slowly, the Autobot offlined his optics, giving way to the void growing within him.

**xxXxXxx**

"I think... Skyfire, maybe you should leave him alone for a while."

The shuttle turned to the speaker, a vicious glare on his face. Smokescreen, having never seen such a look before on the other, flinched, suddenly wary of Skyfire's fluid allegiance and his monstrous size. Stepping back a pede-step, he flared his doorwings in warning, servos folding before him tensely. Seeing the defensive action, Skyfire hurried to try and reign in his ire, turning his glare to the floor. "My... apologies," he replied tersely, "But I will not do as you say Smokescreen. Ratchet needs me still. Even if he doesn't want anything to do with me."

The psychiatrist frowned, clenching his servos tightly. "Listen, I understand that you feel something for him Skyfire, but it is in my medical opinion-"

"What medical opinion?!," Skyfire snapped, cutting the Datsun off. "You are no medical officer; you aren't even a real psychiatrist! It's only because of how under-staffed the crew is, and how much of a charmer you can be, that Optimus even made you shrink. You do not have the expertise or the authority to be telling me anything."

Twisting, as if he had been slapped, it took Smokescreen astroseconds before he was able to respond again. When he did, it was with his doorwings rigid high behind his back and his vocalizer overladen with a snarl. "I have more right and place then you do, outsider!," he yelled. "You were stupid to believe that joining the Decepticons had been the right choice and look at how that turned out! You nearly killed the lot of us, and had your spark blasted through by your so-called 'friend.' You were wrong then, what's to say you're not now?"

The shuttle narrowed his optics, looming over the arrogant Datsun; his engines growling back in rage. Despite the sudden urge he felt to grab Smokescreen by his helm and bash it into the adjacent wall, Skyfire held himself calmly, his wings lowered and still behind him. "I have made my mistakes, yes," he answered coldly, "But I will not leave Ratchet alone. Not after all this now. He _hates_ us, Smokescreen, because of what one mech has done. Abandoning him, even for a moment, will only further cement that false truth, that we're all the same and he's unwanted. If one person can do so much damage, then I will try to be that one person who does all he can to help Ratchet get back onto the right track."

Slowly, Skyfire pulled away, turning his helm and looking back at the medbay doors. They were open just a crack, enough to allow him to see Ratchet, standing over Mirage's frame as he continued to try and repair the broken spy. "Medical knowledge from datapads and routine protocol are no longer valid here Smokescreen...," the shuttle mumbled sadly, all of his anger receding, for the time being. He knew though if he ever came across Wheeljack soon, it would erupt all over again, and he could not be responsible for the things he did to the callous engineer. He could not forgive the other Autobot for what he had done to the medic, after all...

"The only way to heal, to make things better, is to grope our way along through this darkness. I'm sure you've realized that by now too, after what's happened with Mirage."

Smokescreen bit his bottom lip component in shame, dropping his gaze to the floor. He knew, even despite all his anger and guilt and fear, that Skyfire was right. "I...I'm just trying to make sure we all recover from this," he hesitated in confessing, feeling coolant rise to the edges of his optics. "I me-mean, I'm responsible f-for the crew's mental stability. I've got to m-make sure that they're o-okay and that... that..."

"I know...," Skyfire interjected softly. He still did not turn his helm away from the medbay doors. "You may do things as you wish, Smokescreen. As for me... I will do them differently. Whatever it takes, I will see to it that Ratchet can smile... trust... care... once again." His piece spoken, the white mech silently heading for the ajar doors, leaving an ashamed and crying Smokescreen behind.

**xxXxXxx**

Night had fallen, and with it, silence once more.

Orange corridors were empty, void of life, except for the shadow that moved like a wraith down them; a breeze that barely stirred even the smallest layering of dust. The Autobots had already tucked themselves away for the rest of the evening, as they had done since the beginning of this tragedy. Unworried by them though, the shadow continued to slither along, intent on only one direction.

He could not help but pause though as he came across the door to his own room.

Hesitation cost him precious astroseconds, before he decided to move forward; palming the door open. It too was empty within, only the shadows twisting and twirling in surprise to greet him. They were quiet as they turned their attentions to him, not mocking or jeering as they usually did. It was almost as if they were in awe of him, if not stunned by his recent actions, like they didn't believe he had the courage to follow through with anything.

How he had showed them.

Shuttering his optics mutely, the wraith turned and retreated back down the hall, the shadows trailing after him like ghastly pets. They followed him all the way down to the medbay, crawling along the walls and floors as he entered into the room, keeping silent vigil as he headed for the other mech spread out across one of the berths.

"Mirage...," he whispered softly, reaching out. He held his energon-soaked servos over the unconscious spy's helm; weaving them along the arches and dips in the blue plating, but never actually touching the metal. He would not, he decided, sully such innocence with his tainted touch.

"Oh, precious Mirage... the deed has been done," the wraith continued lowly, his lip components tugging into a broken smile. "Our revenge is complete. The very ones that have done this to us are no more... I'm only sorry that it came so late. That I could not accomplish this before you tried to take your own life."

No sign of acknowledgement came from Mirage -not even a twitch of his fingers- only the steady and depressing hum of the system-support machines as they worked away, and his visible spark still weakly puttering.

Sighing softly, the mech bent closer to his comatose companion, servos resting on the berth. It took nearly all his effort not to shake. "I...I have sold what little I had left for this victory, and soon, I will have to leave for good now. The demon I have made my bargain with beckons for me; I can feel it," he confessed, spark heavy. He paused, uncertain, before chuckling mirthlessly. "Heh... There's so much I want to say, but I... I don't think I'll be able to get it all out..."

"Just... come back to us soon Mirage. The others will need you, as much as you need them. Your strength will help guide them where I can not. And maybe someday, the memories shall fade and you can all be happy, somehow."

Gently, he pressed a kiss to the spy's crown, before pulling away entirely. The shadows cooed sadly as he walked backwards to the doors, circling tightly around his legs as he went. The mech did not care. His attention was still fixed on Mirage though, farewells whispering loudly in his helm. Words he could not force out of his vocalizer. Before the doors closed on his disappearing frame, one final sentence echoed into the medbay.

"...Be well..."


	9. Chapter 9

He'd only look on this place once more.

Thrusters struck high into the sky, peeking out from the rubble that covered the base, where they connected to the rest of the ship. Open doors underneath showed orange walls, darkening as they led further into the shuttle, where the rest of the crew would be. Ignorant as always...

Then why did he feel almost sad to be going?

Leaves rustled quietly behind him; canting his helm slightly, he acknowledged the other's presence quietly. A red gaze was fixed firmly on his backstruts, burning a cold heat into the metal. "I know...," he whispered, speaking to the silent demand.

Warmth encased his servo as the new-comer grasped it, slowly tugging him away from his remorseful vigil over the Ark across the plain. He did not protest the action, nor the arm winding about his waist possessively. He had after all agreed to this.

"Come," beckoned the flat voice, and he obeyed, not sparing even the smallest glance backwards.

**xxXxXxx**

Optimus stared at the mech behind the bars, burdened by disappointment and disbelief. "Do you have any remorse, whatsoever?," the truck-former asked, hoping for some sort of confession.

Wheeljack's optics darkened, the engineer clenching his fists between his thighs. "No," he snarled through his blast mask. His helm fins flashed a dark red. "Why should I? I've done nothing wrong. If you've forgotten, I was the one that was viciously attacked, for no reason at all! I don't deserve to be locked in the brig- that monster does, and so do the rest of you!"

At the Autobot leader's side, Prowl actually flinched.

The white mech scoffed, his accusing glare still fixed on Optimus. "They've changed... all of them. They've become poisonous, and look at how they're affecting you! Everyone -they've all started to pander to Ratchet's manipulations, going around weak and whimpering. It's no wonder the Decepticons are winning," Wheeljack coldly said. "We should have just left those four to rot... instead of bringing that disease back into our base and paying the consequences."

"Why ya fragging-," Jazz growled behind them. Silence quickly followed, and Optimus could only assume that Prowl had intervened before the saboteur could say anything more. For that, he was grateful.

Slowly, the truck crossed his arms behind his back, struggling to keep the coolant from rising to his optics. "I... am sorry that you feel that way, Wheeljack," the larger Autobot said. A touch of static laced his tone, which he avidly ignored. "But you will remain here until either you can forgo your misplaced hatred, or until an appropriate punishment has been decided. This... incident, has affected much, but for you, the cost seems to have been too much."

The engineer did not reply; turning his helm down and scowling at the floor of his cell.

There was nothing else he could do. Bowing his helm slightly, Optimus tried to muffle his sigh as best as he could, feeling as if once again he had failed. "We'll leave you alone then," he announced, turning in place. He paused, waiting to see if Wheeljack would make some sort of comment or repentance. But of course, the engineer did neither. "You are a good mech, Wheeljack," Optimus attempted to assure, "But even we are just as lost as how to react to the horror our friends have suffered through. Maybe you should think about that some more."

Prowl and Jazz followed behind silently as their leader exited the brig. Only when the doors had closed behind them, depositing the trio out into the empty hallway, did Optimus let his shoulders sag -the only outward sign of the immense suffering the valiant mech bore.

"Sir...," Jazz piped up gently. "Sir, ya shouldn't blame yerself. 'Ow could ya have known anybot, let alone 'Jack, would have act'd up like that?"

"Nonetheless... I should have been here. I should have done something," the truck-former replied weakly. Quickly, he started marching forward, forcing his officers to match his long strides.

This time, it was Prowl that spoke. "Jazz is correct, sir: No one could have predicted this outcome. The chances were astronomically low, considering the crew's prior evaluated responses to various situations. Sadness and anger are typical emotions involved in a case like this... but who could have guessed that Wheeljack would turn those things on the others, and henceforth, himself as well? Indeed, it-"

"Primus-slaggit! Stop making this sound like a fragging statistic, Prowl!," Jazz snapped suddenly, startling his two comrades. The saboteur blanched after his violent outburst, dim gaze dropping to the floor ashamedly. "A-a-ah... Ah'm so, so s-sorry, I-i..."

"It... it's alright, Jazz," the SIC cut off the other's broken stuttering. "I'm sorry."

Optimus looked down on his two officers, not for the first time feeling as if he had asked too much of them. "You two should get some rest. I'm relieving you of duty for the time being; go, take some time to meditate or recharge. Whatever you need at this moment," the great mech informed. Stunned, the other Autobots turned to look at him.

"And what about you, sir?," Prowl asked. "We only just got back from New York as it is, and we've yet to debrief with Smokescreen on the ship's status with the exception of Wheeljack here. Not only that, but you single-handedly have been dealing with all human liaisons and participating in every response call for Decepticon activity since the beginning of this ordeal. You need rest and energon, just as much as Jazz and myself do."

"Yeah, sir," Jazz politely added. "Yer not sup'r mech, ya know... M-maybe, maybe we should have told the humans the situation? A-ah mean, they c-could probably help, ya know; they've git people bett'r equip'd fo' this stuff, y-ya know..."

The truck shook his helm, staring off at a point down the hall. "No. This is not the humans' war; I don't wish to involve them any more than they already are," Optimus replied. "This is my crew. I should have made them my main priority."

The saboteur's visor dimmed sadly at the statement, and even Prowl's usually stoic expression softened. "Optimus...," the Datsun started kindly. "Sir, you've done more than you think. You've done everything you can to keep the crew's morale up, always keeping them first in your thoughts, even when we rode out to deal with Decepticon attacks. You've made certain that no one had to go into battle unless absolutely necessary, and you've remained silent about what's happened to our comrades, so as to preserve their dignity. I know you don't want them to be seen or treated less than what they are: good, brave and tender-sparked individuals."

"Sir," Prowl continued, "With all due respect, you've offered everyone -not just the victims- the same amount of kindness, patience, care and concern that they've needed. What could you possibly have done beyond that?"

"Nobot could have done more than ya have, sir, and they should be asham'd o' themselves fo' doin' less," Jazz added. "Ah don't think Ah could ev'r fully explain 'ow much yer guidance means 't meh, 'specially now."

Hearing such spark-felt words, the great Autobot leader felt himself become overwhelmed by the tears he'd been holding back for so long now. Turning slightly to disguise the sight from his officers, Optimus said in a raspy tone, "I... I think I will go talk to Ironhide for a bit."

The two black and white mechs nodded in understanding. "Ah think he's in the control room, sir, talkin' wit' Blue at the moment," the saboteur offered. The truck-former made a wet sound of acknowledgement, before starting off in that very direction. Together, Jazz and Prowl watched him go, respectively giving their leader the space he needed. Mechs like him were always under the pressure to remain strong before their soldiers... but even Primes needed a friend to be weak with.

"Ya...uh...ya want t' git some energon then?," the Special Ops mech asked quietly. He looked at Prowl discreetly, waiting to see what the SIC's response would be. The Datsun turned his helm to Jazz, a tired smile pulling slightly at his lip components.

"I wouldn't mind a cube, Jazz. It'll give me some time to sort out everything's that happened; save me the trouble of crashing as well," Prowl replied. At the attempted joke, Jazz smiled himself, his servo reaching outwards slowly and nervously closing around a couple of the other mech's fingers. Prowl said nothing to the action, moving his servo in response so that it was cupping the saboteur's completely; fingers entwined and palms pressed together in silent reassurance.

"Well, Ah guess we should-," the third-in-command started, one pede moving forward to fall into step. The sychronised beep of their comms startled both of the officers. Frowning in confusion, Prowl lifted a servo first, opening the link.

"Prowl here," he said. Jazz hurried to access the call as well.

"Ahh... Prowl, sir," Inferno's voice came across the other line. There was a momentary pause, followed by a grunt and a barely heard squeal. "Ah, Ah think yah should come on down 'ere ta the secur'ty hub. We've gotta, uh, lil' -ouch- problem."

"Where's Red?," the saboteur asked.

"H-he's, oww...," Inferno cut himself off again to grunt as something clanged in the background. "He's 'ere...Umm, A-ah really sugges' c-comin' down 'ere, sir. It's n-necessary."

"We'll be right there," the SIC replied. Closing the connection, he turned to look at Jazz, who nodded back at him. Together, they turned, heading towards the security hub.

**xxXxXxx**

Optimus never made it to the control room. Sharp voices started echoing down the halls; worried about his soldiers, the Autobot leader turned and started walking down the opposite corridor, finding himself heading towards some of the crew's quarters instead of the main area. His spark pulsed weakly at the implications.

"Tracks?! Tracks, p-please...pl-please, answer us!"

"Percy, calm down, please!"

"We can't get in; the lock's been fried."

"TRACKS!"

"Slaggit, would you just-"

Loud, angry banging started up next, just over top of helpless sobbing. Spark pulsing erratically now, Optimus quickened his pace. The sight that met his optics when he turned the corner was of Perceptor wailing and struggling desperately, trying to fight his way out of Sunstreaker's hold and claw for the door that Sideswipe was currently trying to break down. Caught off guard by the scene before him, the larger mech could only stand there, dazed.

"...what is going on here...?"

Sideswipe tripped on his next charge at the door, slamming into it face first, while Sunstreaker turned and scowled at their leader. Optimus paid the look no mind; he knew by now, that most of the frontliner's anger was never directed at him usually, and with circumstances like these, the yellow twin had much to be upset about. Perceptor was the only one who did not turn to face the truck, instead struggling weakly to get out of Sunstreaker's arms, his gaze fixated on the door as he sobbed loudly in distress.

"S-sir," Swideswipe piped up slowly. Optimus gave the red warrior his fullest attention. Self-conscious, the other clenched his fists at his sides. "Sir... Perceptor hasn't seen Tracks in the past few orns. In fact, neither have I. And the last person that went missing..."

The lamborghini trailed off, but the message was already clear to the larger Autobot. The last mech that had gone missing was Mirage... and he was discovered a few hours later with a crude dagger protruding from his open chestplates. Slowly, Optimus looked from Sunstreaker trying to somehow console a distraught Perceptor, to the dented door that Sideswipe had been throwing himself at.

"Boys...," the truck-former said, "Stand aside."

The red twin opened his mouth to comment when his optics suddenly flashed in surprise, leaping out of the way just in the nick of time as the big mech came barrelling down the rest of the hallway. Without slowing down or concern for himself, Optimus slammed into Tracks' door -the metal screeched, for maybe an astrosecond, before the door buckled and flew inward with the force of the Autobot leader's impact. With a grunt, Optimus hit the floor within the room, vents heaving a little at the cloud of dust that had been kicked up with his fall.

Perceptor let out a gasp, elbowing out of Sunstreaker's arms and rushing into the room, uncaring about the truck that he trampled back into the floor in his hurry. "S-sir... you alright?," Sideswipe asked, coming to Optimus' aid. Sunstreaker joined his twin, both warriors holding out a servo for the other to take. "Here, let us help you."

The bigger mech let himself be helped up, dusting himself off as he shakily rose to his pedes. Carefully, he pressed fingertips to his helm, where he had dented the metal during his charge. "I'm fine, really. You need not worry about me," Optimus assured. "We need to-"

The hiccuping shriek of dismay from the scientist cut off the rest of his words. Whirling around, all three mechs turned to see Perceptor running back towards them, slamming into Sideswipe's open arms. "H-h-he... he i-isn't here? Wh-why? Why i-isn't he h-h-here?," the smaller mech wailed, pressing tighter to the lamborghini. "O-oh, please... pl-please tell me h-he's okay! T-tell m-me he's ok-okay!"

Sunstreaker stroked the crown of Perceptor's helm quickly, walking further into the room alongside Optimus. Indeed, there was no one to be seen -dead or alive- and the truck had a hard time deciding if he was relieved or more worried about this revelation. The two of them slowly walked around the small space, taking note of the forlorn desk and berth, all richly covered in dust and looking as if they'd been abandoned for some time now. Frowning, Optimus touched the desk, noting the faintest impression at one corner of the metal where the dust had been disturbed. Him and the yellow warrior shared a troubled look before turning back to the door.

"He's gone," Sunstreaker confirmed, walking back to his brother and lover. He took the microscope from Sideswipe, cuddling Perceptor close and mumbling words of comfort against his audio receptor. The scientist had quieted now into simple sobbing, still begging desperately to know what had happened to the corvette.

"But where?," the red lamborghini asked, looking at his twin. "Where could he have gone?"

"That is something we need to find out," Optimus piped up. The frontliners turned to the truck, confused. Raising a servo to his helm, the Autobot leader accessed his comm link, sending out a call to his top officers. "Jazz," he said when the connection had gone through, "We have a problem."

"Ah could say the same thang ov'r here, sir," the saboteur answered on the other line.

"What? Where are you?"

"Security hub, sir. And, sir...," Jazz hesitated, making Optimus' fuel tanks drop further. "Ya should probably hurry. There's somethin' ya gotta see."

The larger mech swallowed slowly, nodding his helm subconsciously. "I understand. I'll be there shortly." Ending the call, Optimus turned to his soldiers. "Take Perceptor somewhere he can calm down. I'll find out where Tracks is, but right now I'm needed at the security hub."

Sideswipe and Sunstreaker nodded back in understanding; the yellow lamborghini picking the microscope up and carrying him out of the room. Following after their pedes, Optimus pulled the fallen door back up, leaning it haphazardly in place, before hurrying back down the hall and to the security hub.

**xxXxXxx**

Optimus stared in horror at the screens before him.

"W-what... what happened here?," he asked, turning to Prowl. The SIC was currently flipping through a file folder, scowling, doorwings hitched high behind him. Jazz cursed from his spot at the terminal, fingers flying across the keyboard rapidly, ignoring both of the 'bots behind him.

At the inquiry, the Datsun lifted his helm, following Optimus' previous line of sight to the monitor screens lining two thirds of the security hub's walls. His optics glanced quickly at the static-laced screens, the word 'vengeance' smeared across the glass in dried energon. Prowl was quick to tear his gaze from the monitors, returning to his work.

"We don't know exactly...," the officer confessed.

"And Red Alert?"

Prowl pinched the bridge of his olfactory sensor, grimacing. "He was off duty last night. Part of his written agreement; every three orns he must take the night off and get some proper recharge, even if that means Inferno has to wrestle him out of the room and to his quarters. This is what he discovered when he came back to the security hub this morning," the Datsun sighed. "Inferno has already taken Red Alert back to his room, and I've notified First Aid that he is to see to our security director in a couple cycles... after Inferno has managed to calm him down some."

Optimus absorbed the news with his own anxious frown, turning his attention back to the security terminals as Jazz rolled his chair to another part of the computer across the room. Black fingers went back to work, clacking away madly. The truck watched the saboteur go, trying his best not to glance back up to the gruesome display someone had painted across the monitors.

"Who was on duty last night?," the Autobot leader asked, to distract himself.

"Beachcomber was on the roster for shift change," Prowl replied, flipping through the files angrily now. "But he never made it the hub. Hoist is with him at the moment. Apparently he got a good de-frag... so good, in fact, he doesn't recall what happened to him at all last night, or even that he was supposed to be here, keeping an eye on the monitors."

The Datsun slammed the binder shut, throwing it carelessly towards the counter in his ire. "But the database shows that someone was in here last night, yet precisely who or when is _so conveniently_ unknown!"

Prowl paused for a moment to cycle a deep intake, continuing in a calmer tone, "At the moment, Jazz is trying to gain access to Red Alert's security feed. It's our only way of figuring out exactly who was in here last night, and what happened to Beachcomber as well."

Optimus turned his helm to the officer. "There's something else you should look into," he informed. "I just came back from the second level quarters, where Sideswipe and Sunstreaker were with-"

"FRAGGIT!"

The curse grabbed both mechs' attention; turning, they looked at the saboteur who was beating at the terminal with a fist. "Jazz, what's wrong?," Prowl demanded as the third-in-command continued to spit a string of curses worthy of Ratchet at the computer.

"What's wrong? What's _WRONG_?!," Jazz shouted, whirling around in his seat to face his superiors. "What's wrong is that Ah jus' spent the last cycle o' so hacking inta paranoid Red's ov'r-complicat'd, ub'r-fo'tifi'd, secure-up-the-auxiliary comput'r, 't find... 't find... well, frag, nothing! Zip, nada, zero, zilch... ya take yer pick, it's not there!"

"Nothing?," Optimus said tensely. "There can't be nothing at all."

Jazz got to his pedes, moving out of the way as the bigger mech approached the terminal. "Yeah, well," he replied snippily, "There actually is nothan'. But Ah mean go ahead, take a look if ya don't believe meh. After all-"

"Jazz," Prowl cut in quickly.

The saboteur bit back the rest of his words, engine huffing angrily as he crossed his arms over his chestplates, turning his scowl to the floor. "Sorry... Ah'm sorry," he mumbled, tone still rife with a bit of ire, "Anyways, Ah've checked. Slag, Ah double-check'd and then triple-check'd, and quadruple-check'd fo' assurance. There is no footage o' even security records from last night. Not even the faintest trace o' a ghost left in the memory core eith'r..."

"How is that possible?," Prowl asked, frowning.

"Frag... Ah don't know, Prowler," Jazz sighed, throwing his servos up into the air. "The core is completely whole, an' neith'r it o' the comput'r is showin' signs o' corruption. Whoev'r was at it, was a pro an'-"

"Prowl, Jazz...," came Optimus' voice, interrupting the officers' discussion. "You need to look at this."

The two mechs shared a look before approaching their leader, standing on either side of him as they too stared at the monitors. It was then that they noticed only one had been spared from vandalism, and it was on this small screen that the background had gone black; white words flickering on its face.

_The Demons Are No More_ , it declared coldly, sending a chill down their backstruts.

"Where did it come from?," Prowl asked, leaning forward, just as Jazz took his seat once more. "Jazz?"

The saboteur tapped away furiously, delving into the terminal's mainframe. "It was set on a tim'r," he answered, visor dimming as he frowned. "It was told 't appear aft'r someone tried accessin'... last... night's... footage..." Jazz's fingers came to a deathly pause, as the black and white mech turned to his companions. Shock registered in the blue light of his optical band.

"Sir..."

"Yes," Optimus muttered lowly, "This could only be the work of Soundwave. If he has managed to infiltrate our base, then we have much to worry about. Doubly so, as Tracks seems to be missing as well. His room has been empty for who knows how long..."

Both Prowl and Jazz turned to glance at the security monitors and their macabre message with new-found horror.

"Prowl," the truck continued, his tone rising in authority. "Inform the other officers and all personnel you believe capable that we're on high security alert as of this moment. Gather together a search team and comb every inch of the Ark for either Soundwave, his creations, or Tracks. Primus be willing, we find him... and alive..."

The SIC nodded his helm, marching towards the door; a servo already up to his comm link.

Optimus turned his attention next to Jazz, opening his mouth to give his second order.

"No need, sir," the saboteur grinned tightly, getting to his pedes. "Ah know what needs 't be done. Ah'll git yer answers, Optimus."

"Come back safe...," the truck said softly as Jazz passed by him next, sprinting down the hall and to the unknown.


	10. Chapter 10

The emptiness was like a cold fog. Wrapped in its cold clutch, Jazz slipped into the hallway, closing the duct up behind him as he did so. He looked first up and then down the corridor, expecting, anticipating some sort of commotion or other sign of life.

Nothing came.

Slowly, the saboteur slunk down the left, keeping to the wall, his sensors turned to the highest notch. The darkness deepened as he headed further down the ship; lilac neon lights dimmed or flickering half-dead in their fixtures along the wall. The way they sputtered caused the shadows to leap and dance like slithering pit-spawn, making Jazz pause for a moment as something glinted in the corner of his visor.

But when the Autobot turned to see better what had caught his attention, there was nothing to be seen. A chill running down his spinal struts, Jazz faced forwards again, quickening his pace down the hall. The silence seemed to only grow, forcing a worm of paranoia to dig into the officer's processor. Jazz did not even have the chance to rid himself of its infectious grasp, before his pede knocked against something dropped on the floor; the item rolled off into inky blackness, clattering like a million wheels against a subway track.

Flinching, the saboteur froze in place, his spark pulsing so erratically in his chestplates that it felt as if the luminescent orb would implode suddenly.

...He could still hear the sound echoing down the hallway and further below the floor...

Yet, he heard nothing else. Jazz stayed where he was, pressed to the wall, intakes stalled and fingers dug deep into the seams of the walls. Like some sort of infallible predator, the silence circled back into the corridor, overtaking the air; compressing it, overwhelming even the dim lights weakly fighting for a chance to live. He did not know how long it took for him to move again, but pushing aside his terror was a battle in itself. Even afterwards, the unease stayed with Jazz as he forced himself to continue down the rest of the hall.

He only had to make it the command deck, he told himself. Everything he needed to know would be saved in the ships' database.

Down, down the black and white mech went, his pace increasing with every level... every empty corridor... every shallow breath of dead stillness... Madness threatened to undo the usually cool Special Ops officer. Reaching into subspace, Jazz withdrew his blaster, holding it between his shaking servos as he rounded the last corner, spotting the door for the command deck just ahead.

His pedefalls were like the slow, single drumbeat to an unfortunate mech's execution.

Coming up to his destination, Jazz shifted the weapon into one servo, fumbling through the dim, dreary lighting for the keypad. A bulb overhead suddenly blew out, startling the Autobot, who ducked his helm against the rain of sparks that showered down on him. From under his arm, he thought he saw something move, touched with a thread of violet, but when he lifted his helm darkness descended again and there was nothing to be seen on his scanners. Unable to quell the strangling terror beneath the surface this time, the mech wildly scratched the wall for the keypad; finding it, he pried it apart, fingers subconsciously twisting at wires, exposing their innards, before hot-wiring the lock into opening for him.

Air came rushing back into his overheating systems as Jazz got the door open; white, pixelated light filling the corridor. Slumping against the doorframe weakly, the saboteur lifted his helm to survey his new surroundings, feeling his relief flee back to the depths of his being once more.

A sea... a sea of magenta painted the world before him...

Fear prickling at his back struts, Jazz slowly turned back around, visor flaring in horror as he took in the demons he had just marched past moments before. Processor crashing, the Autobot sunk to the floor, servos resting in the carnage that surrounded him.

**xxXxXxx**

"Ratchet, please..."

"I said 'leave me alone'!" Skyfire ducked his helm as the medic threw a tray of tools at him; their pristine metal first bouncing off of his chassis before clattering to the floor below. Slowly, the shuttle bent down to pick them up, collecting them in one large servo. Sighing softly, he straightened back up, his optics lifted slightly to stare at the irate 'bot.

"I know you don't wish for my company, Ratchet," he replied, carrying the now dirty tools over to the nearest counter. "But I wanted to be here for you."

Ratchet snarled, spinning around and marching around the side of Mirage's berth. Skyfire did not attempt to follow after him, knowing that the ambulance was using his comatose friend as a last resort barrier. "What...," the medic asked testily, "Are you talking about? What could you possibly do for me?!"

That response made the shuttle cringe. He turned his helm towards the defensive mech slowly, his optics dim and his chin dipped to better display his lack of aggressiveness. "Ratchet... do you not know?," Skyfire asked hesitantly. The idea that Ratchet was unaware of what was happening around the Ark was preposterous... or so he hoped. But it became horribly clear as the CMO remained silent to the question, his glare increasing and his servos clenching at the sides of the berth, that he knew not what the other Autobot was talking about.

"What are you talking about?," Ratchet repeated darkly. His servo inched towards a wrench by Mirage's berthside.

Immediately, Skyfire backed down, his gaze dropping to the floor.

"You-"

"Ratchet, I... I don't believe I should be the one to..."

"Tell me!," the medic roared, coming around the berth, wrench in servo. He stormed up to the shuttle, slamming the tool's head into Skyfire's side painfully. "You were set on keeping me company with your mindless chatter -don't you dare fall silent on me now!"

Skyfire tried to ignore the jabbing pain piercing his side, his optics lighting on the enraged Autobot. "But Ratchet...," he replied softly, grasping the other's servo and pulling the wrench away from his plating, "I had thought you knew... honestly, that Tracks..."

Shrill beeping from Teletraan I's speakers echoed throughout the medbay, cutting off the rest of what the larger 'bot had been about to say. "All personnel report to the command deck," the monotone AI program said, "All personnel report to the command deck immediately." Turning his helm up to the ceiling, Skyfire sighed, cold unease slithering through all of his circuits as he dropped his gaze back down to the medic standing stock-still before him.

Afraid that he had done something to upset the smaller mech, Skyfire gently grasped Ratchet's elbow, bending low to look the other Autobot in the optics. "Ratchet, maybe...," he started quietly, "I think we should go to the command deck."

"What...," came the dead words, halting the shuttle as he turned to escort them both to the door. Glancing down, Skyfire was torn to see that once spiteful face looking back at him, nothing but fear and grasping denial reflecting in the medic's optics. "W-what... what a-about Tracks...?"

"Ratchet, I-"

"TELL ME!," Ratchet screamed, his former ferocity returning as his terror mounted. Skyfire could not move, both his forearms trapped beneath the white mech's caging fingers; trapped, unable to turn his helm away from this beautiful 'bot cracking before him.

Resigned to being the messenger, the shuttle released a small, heavy vent, clenching his servos tightly as he connected gazes with that of the CMO. "Tracks... has been missing," he answered wearily. "For the past week. No one...no one knows where he is; they've been searching since a couple days ago. I thought... I had thought you'd been informed. Perceptor, he knew and-"

Skyfire was unable to finish his sentence as he was shoved back viciously, Ratchet throwing himself away from the bigger mech and sprinting for the doors. He ignored the pain as he slammed a little too quickly into the metal, writhing through the gap impatiently, uncaring to the worried voice calling out to him as he desperately bolted down the halls. Intakes heaving and processor swirling, the CMO flew down the orange corridors, tripping as he turned suddenly into the command deck. He missed the way the silence tightened as he entered, still lost in the moment when he had been flying down the hallways, urged on by the pressing need to get where the others were, where the truth could be found.

Turning his helm up to the front of the group, where the officers stood before Teletraan I, Ratchet's optics flashed violet before he was storming up towards them, fists clenched at his side. "You!," he snarled.

Perceptor jumped out from the crowd, scrambling into the medic's path. "R-ratchet," the microscope hiccuped, on the verge of tears again, "P-please, Ratchet, do not be rash!"

"Liars!," Ratchet screamed, trying to side-step past the smaller mech. "How long? How long did you know that he was missing?! How long were you going to keep the truth from me -until you found Tracks bleeding out onto the floor, or worse, dead?! You rotten, insensitive, conniving gli-"

"Ratchet! PLEASE!" The CMO startled at the frantic shout, turning his helm down to the sobbing scientist grasping at his arms desperately. Perceptor cycled a rattling intake, dropping his gaze weakly to the floor. "P-please...," he begged again, "P-please, d-don't... don't be mad with t-them. Th-they didn't k-know..."

Mechs shifted around the room uncertainly, gazes lifting and sliding off to the sides. Quickly, Ratchet scanned all of their faces, glaring; his own cheekplates darkening before his optics fell contritely as they landed on the Autobot leader. Optimus stared back at the medic unflinchingly, sadness and understanding glimmering in his glossy gaze. "I do apologize Ratchet," the truck said. "If we had paid a little more attention, were not so afraid of what actions we might take ourselves, perhaps we would have noticed sooner what was happening before everything fell apart. As it stands, we only discovered that Tracks was missing but a couple orns ago... we've been searching ceaselessly for him since, hoping that we would have only good news to bring to you."

"We tried, Ratchet," Optimus continued softly. "Please, if nothing else, at least remember that."

Coldness seeped into the medic's circuits as he turned his helm up to the bigger mech; coolant coating his optics as he tried to process information through his rising despair. "W-what... what are y-you saying...?"

"It's over." This time, Prowl stepped forwards; his doorwings held at half-mast behind him, even more rigid than usual. From out of the shadows, Jazz sidled into view, slipping around the SIC's regal form and stepping towards the two victims. "The war as we know it... is no more," the Datsun finished.

Gasps and murmurs of confusion circled around the room. Skyfire, stepping into the room just then, paused. "The war?," his gentle voice asked perplexedly. "I do not understand. How...?"

"What about Megatron? He's never stayed down for long -even when we've thought he was dead!," the shuttle pointed out. "How can you be certain that we no longer have to fight? Not just for ourselves, but for the survival of others?"

"He lives," Prowl confessed, "But it will be vorns before he will ever awaken from stasis. As for his army... Well, there is no army to speak of."

"But..."

"It was all his doing," Jazz continued. He spoke softly, his gaze fixed on Ratchet and Perceptor only, but around the room, silence fell. Everyone hanging onto the mech's words. He smiled, half-brokenly as he came to a stop before the two Autobots, holding out a simple datapad. He visor dimmed and his smile twisted apologetically as the scientist took the risk, reaching forward to accept the item from the saboteur. "His last effort...," the Special Ops officer mumbled, "...and all for you..."

The crowd waited anxiously as Perceptor cradled the datapad closer, his fingers fumbling to turn the dingy screen on. Slowly, a few of the bystanders stepped forward; Bluestreak, Bumblebee and Hoist, to name a few, coming closer to their estranged comrades. Distracted as he was, Ratchet did not notice, his attention glued to the little screen that flashed into life. Carefully, he leaned over the microscope's shoulders, reading the words typed across its face. The silence stretched on, all optics witness as horror, then absolute sorrow overtook the two reading the datapad and its mysterious message.

"N-no...," choked Perceptor, his servos dropping as the datapad clattered to the floor below. "Wh-why... why would he...? I-i-i mean, we... w-we didn't..." The red mech sunk to the floor slowly, vocalizer spitting static as the tears splashed down his face unhindered. "T-tracks... y-you didn't... you...you..."

Like water, sorrow flowed from every mech there; tears collecting in optics and intakes stuttering. Unable to fight it any longer, Ratchet too collapsed. But he did not hit the floor. A warmth pressed to his side, holding him upright. Onlining his optics through his tears, the medic turned, gasping through a sob as he saw Bluestreak staring back at him. The young gunner smiled softly at the older mech, unashamed about the tears spilling down his own cheekplates as he reached down to clasp Ratchet's servo. Overwhelmed by the compassion that he had so needed, the CMO sobbed loudly, his helm turning back to the floor as the tears came harder. Grey doorwings fluttered, rising protectively about him as Bluestreak rested his helm on Ratchet's shaking shoulder plating. On his right, another presence settled in, gently lifting the ambulance's servo into a much larger one.

From his spot, Optimus watched as his crew broke down completely; discarding firewalls and false bravado, allowing themselves to finally be as weak as they felt and have the chance to comfort and be comforted in return. From his own optics came a few tears; the coolant trickling heavily down the sides of the truck's battle mask.

A soft touch on his elbow drew the Autobot leader's attention; cycling an intake wearily, he turned his helm to Smokescreen, unsurprised to see that the psychologist had sought him out during this moment. The multi-coloured Datsun could see past his facade well enough, mask or not.

"It...it will be a struggle," Smokescreen said thickly, the faintest trace of static in his tone. "B-but... but I think they might be able to make it, sir."

Optimus smiled, folding his servos behind his back as he returned his gaze back to the rest of his soldiers. No... not soldiers anymore, he told himself. Today, the idea of peace and freedom were more of a reality than just a longed for hope. "Yes... I know they will. I have faith in them."

**xxXxXxx**

_Let me start with, 'I'm sorry.'_

_I'm sorry for the pain, I'm sorry for the anger, I'm sorry for the things that I have destroyed or have been destroyed by the others._

_I can never erase what happened, but I can do my part in making sure you are never reminded of it again._

_I leave you now, with the knowledge that I have made every single one of them pay. I have sold my soul... but in exchange, vengeance has been exacted. I'm sorry that it wasn't sooner._

_Do not follow me; I will not be found. I can not return. I am content with the choices I have made, so please do not fret._

_I will be okay where I go._

_Ratchet, Perceptor, Mirage..._

_Take care._

_-Tracks_

* * *

 

**C.M.D: This is where the story ends. Sexual abuse, in any form, is a crime that is so indescribable, words are useless, and the things it ruins in its wake are very rarely mentioned. I started this with the hopes of exploring how four different individuals would be changed, how they would recover (if ever they did), and what would become of the others around them. I succeeded.  
The ending may not have been one that you were looking for, but it is the only honest and true ending that could give any of the Autobots hope. If you've made it this far, thank you for joining me on this ride; I hope this comes back to your minds every once in a blue moon.**


End file.
